


Of Diamonds And Dust

by aban_ataashi



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Double Dwarf Universe, Dwarf Commoner Origin, Dwarf Noble Origin, F/F, F/M, Gen, Multiple Warden AU, Retelling of Origins, this just in i love the dwarf origins and they need more love so here i am
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2019-04-01
Packaged: 2019-04-20 07:57:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 33,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14256462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aban_ataashi/pseuds/aban_ataashi
Summary: In the grand dwarven city of Orzammar, Marja Aeducan and Darvis Brosca lead lives as different as one could possibly imagine. Marja Aeducan, a member of the nobility and second in line for the throne, has spent her life maneuvering the dangerous political machinations of the Assembly and the Diamond Quarter. Meanwhile, Darvis Brosca, a Casteless dwarf rejected by society, does whatever it takes to survive amid the gangs on the streets of Dust Town.When a Grey Warden arrives in Orzammar, the lives of Marja and Darvis are forever changed. Driven from the city by misfortune and betrayal, the two must join the ranks of the Wardens in order to save their own lives. But the surface has far greater dangers than they realize. The noble and the thief will need to stand together if they're going to fight against the oncoming Blight, the brewing civil war, and the strange surface malady called "sunburn".





	1. The Proud City of Orzammar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two dwarves, two lives. Same city, different worlds. The story begins.

In the shining opulence of Orzammar’s Diamond Quarter, the birth of the second child of the Aeducan family is cause for great celebration. The nobility of Orzammar flood the palace with gifts of gems, ceremonial armor, and other such finery that does a better job of flattering the king than of serving any use to his newborn daughter. Favor is earned and alliances are evaluated as Marja Aeducan gurgles in her crib, oblivious to the fact that she is second in line to the throne her father sits upon.

 

In the tired streets of Orzammar’s Dust Town, the birth of the second child of the Brosca family passes with little notice. The people here have better things to do than fawn over yet another Casteless infant. An exception lies in the boy’s sister, a child herself who devotes her time to caring for her new sibling. Darvis Brosca sleeps contently in her arms, unaware of the mark on his face or the meaning it carries.

 

At seven years old, Marja is the darling of the palace and the favorite of the king. Most of her time is spent with her tutors, where she learns politics, culture, and history from the large tomes brought in by the Shapers. Any time not spent in the library is spent at her father’s side, where she sees these concepts put into practice. Marja prefers the practical lessons. Even at a young age she is a natural at charming the court, and her father delights in showing her off.

Her only other companions in these times are her brothers. Bhelen, barely old enough to walk, trails after his sister whenever he can. Trian, the eldest, is more reserved, and if he envies the attention given to his sister, he does not show it.

 

At seven years old, Darvis knows the alleys of Orzammar like the back of his hand. The alleys are dirty and dark, but they are hidden, and nobody yells at him for venturing past the limits of Dust Town. Occasionally he comes across others in the alley, people he instinctively knows to be dangerous, but they pay little mind to the scrawny boy with skinned knees scampering past.

This is where he meets Leske. Leske teaches him how to pick a spot and sit in wait until the moment is just right. Together, they dart into the street, Leske knocking over carts and stalls as a distraction as Darvis snatches coins from the hand of some unsuspecting citizen. It’s risky business but the boys are small and quick and reckless, and the guard has more dangerous criminals to spend their time chasing. Rica has given up on telling him to stop and now merely tells him to be careful. Darvis knows she worries, but the look of relief on his sister’s face when he hands her the coin is enough to make it worth the danger.

 

When Marja is twelve, she meets her first assassin. He comes in the night, and it is only by chance Marja awakens in time to scream for the guards. She cries as the guards drag the body of the assassin out of her room, and her father chides her. _You are royalty,_ he says, _and royalty remains strong._ Marja takes his words to heart and swallows her tears. The next day she attends court with her father as usual, smiling her usual smile at the fellow nobility, and silently wonders which of them paid to have her killed.

Until then Marja had regarded her combat training as a mildly interesting subject, much like her history lessons. Now, she commits herself to the training with greater vigor than she herself thought she was capable of. Her trainer gives her a ceremonial sword and shield, all bright and polished and beautiful. Marja, however, prefers the large double-handed greatsword. Some of the older warriors snicker at the sight of the young princess struggling to lift the large blade. Trian even refuses to practice with her, claiming it’s beneath him. Marja pays them little mind. She seeks out someone who _will_ spar with her- the son of one of her father’s warriors, a boy her age named Gorim- and practices every day until she can wield the imposing weapon with ease. The weight of the sword carries some comfort, and with the weapon at her bedside she is able to sleep soundly again.

 

When Darvis is twelve, he meets Beraht. He is returning home after a typical day, hoping that his mother will be passed out by now and that Rica found enough food to make dinner. Instead, he finds Rica conversing with a rough-looking man he’s never seen before. The man, he learns, is Beraht, and he has a job offer. Rica’s face is pinched and worried, but she tries to inject some brightness into her voice as she talks about the opportunity Beraht has for her. The man has a predatory look that sets Darvis on edge, and his eyes immediately focus on the stolen coins clutched in Darvis’s fist. _And where did you get that from,_ he wonders. Darvis glares at him defiantly, and he laughs. _I might have a job for you, too._

Darvis has his own knives, but the set of daggers he gets from Beraht is shiny and new. He runs his fingers lightly over the edges, admiring the handiwork. He’s not stupid. He knows that Beraht can’t be trusted. The jobs Darvis gets now are far more dangerous than running through the streets and pickpocketing strangers. But the money is good and for now that’s all that matters.

 

By the time Marja is sixteen, she knows the intricacies of court inside and out. She studies each of her acquaintances carefully, taking note of the different ways each can be persuaded and the unique signs that mark their lies. They do the same to her, always searching for something that they can exploit. Marja keeps careful control of all she does, offering smiles and nothing more to the circling nobles that wish to win her favor and undermine her power in equal measure.

Fortunately, Marja has Bhelen and Gorim at her side. Bhelen rarely gets involved in the complex schemes of the nobility, and in fact finds amusement in most of the mechanics of the court. Rarely does a ceremony go by without a sarcastic, under-the-breath comment from the young prince, and he is one of the few who can coax a sincere laugh from his sister.

Gorim is even better. He often jokes that Marja has no need for a personal bodyguard, but Marja is thankful for him all the same. Steadfast and loyal, he is everything a warrior should be, and one of the few people Marja knows that truly possesses something resembling honor.

Her relationship with Trian, however, only grows more strained. As time passes, his resentment of his sister festers. It comes to a boil on the day Marja finally convinces him to spar with her on the training grounds. Trian is highly skilled in combat, but he underestimates his sister, and to the surprise of them both Marja manages to knock him flat. The spectators laugh, and Trian has never liked to be laughed at. He leaps to his feet and glares at Marja, dark fire in his eyes. _Don’t forget that I’m the one who’s going to be king,_ he spits. _I’m going to rule, and you’re going to be married off to whatever House pays the most._ He turns and stalks away, and Marja swallows her own angry words as she watches him go. She wants to fight back, but Trian is right about one thing; being the future king carries a certain power. For now, she has to hold her tongue.

 

By the time Darvis is sixteen, he’s well-known as a thief and lackey of the Carta. He’s good with his daggers and his fists, and can lift a purse as easy as breathing. In a way, he’s lucky. The Carta is respected and feared, and membership provides protection from the other Dust Town criminals. The job is simple. He follows orders, gets the job done, and brings home just enough coin to ensure he and Rica won’t starve. If the job is also unpleasant, well...most things in Dust Town are unpleasant. He doesn’t expect anything else.

Rica, however, carries an endless optimism. She speaks of _someday_ with a smile. Someday when she finds a wealthy patron. Someday when they pay off their debts. Someday when he’s free of the Carta and can become whatever he wants. Darvis doesn’t see the bright future she describes, but he can’t bear to tarnish her hope by arguing.

The Carta isn’t all that bad. Darvis is good at what he does, and he has Leske to watch his back. Leske is sarcastic and crude and smiles like he’s laughing at the world. They make a good team, and Darvis knows he would have landed in the Orzammar cells long ago if not for his friend.

The Orzammar guard is not the only danger. The Carta may offer protection and payment, but it also doles out punishment. Darvis knows what happens to those defy orders. So no matter how hard it is, when Beraht visits he bites his tongue and smothers his temper. His family’s welfare is dependent on this man, but it’s hard to remember that when he speaks to Rica the way he does. Once, Darvis leaps to her defense, until a blow from Beraht sends him to the ground.   _You’re useful,_ he snarls, _but you’re not the only thug for hire. Remember that, and be a little thankful for all I’ve done for you._ There are a million things Darvis wants to say, but he sees Rica trembling in the corner, and he says none of them.

 

Marja is twenty when she hears that a Warden will be visiting Orzammar. The rumors say he is looking for aid against an upcoming Blight. The dwarves hold little sympathy for him; darkspawn on the surface are no concern to them. But it is still tradition to honor the Wardens, and as dictated by tradition there will be a banquet, a Proving, and every other piece of ceremony the nobles think will impress their visitor from the surface.

The Warden’s visit is not the only reason for celebration and ceremony. Marja has at last been given her first moment of command- the first of many, she believes. Rumors are sweeping the nobility, saying that the king will pass over his eldest son and make Marja his heir. Marja has heard them all, and knows they are more than idle gossip. She has known for a long time that Trian would make for a terrible king. He is stubborn and callous, and the only favor he holds in the Assembly is with the staunch traditionalists.

The timing couldn’t be better. The king will be looking to impress the Grey Warden, and Marja’s mission will provide the perfect opportunity. If all goes well, this could be the last push needed for her father to officially name Marja as the future Queen of Orzammar.

 

Darvis is twenty when he hears that a Warden will be visiting Orzammar. The man’s arrival would not matter to him in the least if not for the Provings. But the nobles would never miss a chance to show off their favorite pastime to the visitor, and Beraht makes a lot of money off of gamblers. He sends word to Darvis and Leske to ready themselves for an important task on the day of the Proving. No more details are given, but Darvis knows what to expect. For all the nobles like to talk about honor and the favor of the ancestors, most Proving champions are decided by people like Beraht before they even step into the arena. He simply needs some rogues that are good at not being noticed to make sure everything goes according to plan.

Like everything they do, the risk is significant. If Darvis and Leske were discovered, the nobles would have their heads. But for once, Darvis has a good feeling about what the future holds. Rica is positive that she has a patron now, a wealthy noble that is enamored with her. She needs a little more time, and then they’ll have enough coin to last them the rest of their lives.

The timing couldn’t be better. Beraht would normally be keeping eyes on Rica, but with the nobility flaunting their wealth for the Warden, Beraht will have his hands full running a dozen different schemes. Darvis just needs to do his job and keep Beraht happy, and with a little luck by the time the ceremony is done Rica will have secured a spot alongside her noble. Once that happens, they’ll never need to turn to Beraht for help again.

 

A Warden is visiting the proud city of Orzammar, and everything is about change.


	2. A Thief and a Scheme

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a thief as stealthy as Darvis Brosca, it should be just another simple job. But this simple job is escalating into something bigger.

Days never end well that begin with Beraht at the door.

The Carta boss enters the Brosca home without introduction, pushing his way into the cramped and dirty house with a rough, unsatisfied look on his face. “Rica!” he barks, and Darvis’s fists automatically clench. Rica shoots her brother a warning look before turning to Beraht. He stares her down coldly. “I haven’t gotten an update this week. Do you have a patron yet or not?”

Rica puts on her best calming expression. She has all the charm that Darvis lacks, but even that is rarely enough to soothe Beraht.  “I was waiting until I had more to tell you.”

 “Don’t make me wait forever, precious,” Beraht growls, turning to pace across the room. Rica’s eyes follow him. She’s not dressed for work yet; she wears a simple dress and no makeup, and her dark red hair is pulled back in a loose bun. She’s only a few years older than Darvis, but at times like this her eyes are lined with worry in a way that makes her seem older. “You’ve got the looks,” Beraht continues, “but that’ll only last so long. You’ve gotta start putting in a little more effort. _”_

An angry noise escapes from the back of Darvis’s throat, and Beraht’s beady eyes slide over to him. “Something to say, boy?”

“Don’t talk to her like that,” Darvis snaps. He knows immediately it was a mistake. It’s not smart to talk back to someone like Beraht. But then, Darvis has never been particularly smart.

Beraht steps forward, bearing down over Darvis. “As long as you both eat off my plate, I’ll talk to her however I damn well want. And _you_ ” he jabs a finger at Darvis’s chest, “will keep your head down and says “aye” to any job low enough for scum like you.” From behind Beraht’s back, Rica gives Darvis a cautionary, pleading look. _She’s right,_ Darvis thinks to himself. He knows she is, but there are times he just can’t stop himself. For now, however, he’s able to turn his eyes down and bite his tongue. The taste of blood fills his mouth, but he’d bleed worse if he said what was on his mind.

Beraht backs away, pleased, and turns back to Rica. “And the entire reason I did all this for you was so you could hunt down a noble. But at the moment, my investment isn’t bearing much gold. My patience is growing thin. If you can’t find a patron, it’ll be up to you to pay me back for all those fancy dresses and poetry lessons. And you don’t want to be in the position of owing me any more money.”

Rica pales. “I…I might have someone,” she says hesitantly. “I can’t promise anything yet, but he seems interested. Please, I just need a little more time.”

Beraht snorts. “We’ll see.” He looks towards Darvis. “As for you, an important job just came up. Leske will fill you in. Don’t screw this up- your whole family is on loose sand with me right now.” Without another word, he strides out of the room, and Rica lets out a heavy sigh of relief.

“Fuck him,” Darvis says furiously to the closed door, and Rica gives him a warning look.

“You have to be more careful. One day that temper is going to get you into real trouble. Now that Beraht’s getting impatient, he’s going to be much worse than usual.”

“I just hate to see you treated like that,” Darvis mutters, and Rica smiles fondly at him.

“You’re a good brother. You’ve always tried to protect me. But you have to trust me. This patron I mentioned… this could get us out of here for good.” She looks around at their surroundings, her eyes wistful. “You should see the homes some of these nobles have… more rooms than I can count, with silk sheets and golden trimmings on every bed. With that kind of coin, we could leave all this behind forever. We could _be_ something.”

“Well, we need to act fast.” The thought of simply escaping into a world of gold and silk is a pretty one, but that’s not how the world works. Any good fortune Rica finds, Beraht will claim. But the Carta’s dealings have been expanding, and with the nobles all preparing to impress a visitor from the surface, Beraht’s been busier than ever with his schemes. If Rica secured her position soon, they could make their move while Beraht’s attention was elsewhere. Once they got themselves- or at least Rica- into a house surrounded by noble guards, they might stand a chance of leaving Beraht in the dust.

It’s a plan based on luck, which is something neither Darvis nor Rica have ever had, but it’s better than nothing.

Darvis shakes his head, batting away the distracting thoughts. For now, he has to follow Beraht’s orders. “I better get on my way.”

“And I need to get dressed,” Rica sighs. “Honestly, all of the noble fashions are going to be the end of me. My newest dress has about a thousand buttons on each sleeve.” With that, she disappears behind her small partition in the corner of the room.

Darvis heads for the door, but stops on the way out to check on their mother. She lies slumped over the table, somehow still asleep despite Beraht’s loud entrance. Darvis sighs and grabs the half-full tankard in front of her. He rummages through the kitchen to find a skin of water and adds some to the cup, filling it to the brim. Hopefully the watered down alcohol will prevent her from drinking herself into a stupor again; if not, it will at least keep her from wasting money on another cask. When he’s done, he slides the drink back in front of her and nudges her shoulder. It takes a few more nudges and some water flicked across her face before she wakes with a start.

“Rica?” She squints at Darvis, her mouth setting itself into a deep frown. If Darvis looks hard, he can see where Rica gets her beauty. Their mother has the same dark red hair and wide eyes, and must have been pretty once, before she started living out of the bottle. Darvis supposes his own thick brown hair and rough looks must come from his father, although he can never be sure; he has no memories of the man who disappeared long ago. But he wonders if a resemblance would explain the disappointment that colors his mother’s face whenever she looks at him. “Oh. It’s you. What are you bothering me for now?”

Darvis rolls his eyes. “You blacked out again, Mother. Try drinking some water today.”

She makes a grumbling noise and reaches for the cup. “Don’t tell me my business.”

“You’re going to end up killing yourself like this,” Darvis snaps, and his mother lets out a harsh laugh as she takes a long drink. She doesn’t seem to notice the watered-down alcohol, which Darvis counts as a small victory. He sighs. “I have to go. Just try to dry up before I get home.”

But he’s lost her attention now, so he leaves her to her drink and steps out into the streets of Dust Town.

 

Dust Town is the type of place nobody lives unless it’s all they’ve got. The streets are full of beggars and criminals, each one with the telltale brand of the Casteless. There’s not a building in the town that’s not half falling apart, and the buildings are for the lucky ones.

Darvis’s own ramshackle house is squeezed into a corner on one of the backstreets of the town. Leske leans against it, examining his knuckles with boredom until he catches sight of Darvis. A sharp grin appears on his face and he calls out, “About sodding time! I was about to bust in to get you. Maybe say hi to Rica.” He bounces his eyebrows at the last comment.

Darvis heaves a sigh and pushes past his friend. “ _Not_ in the mood for that right now, Leske.”

Leske snorts and swings his long braids over his shoulder. “Oh, I do enjoy your lively banter. But since you’re in such a hurry… we have an appointment at the Provings today.”

“ _What?”_

Leske sets off down the old dirt road, Darvis falling into place next to him. “You heard me. These orders come straight from Beraht.”

“But why us?” The Provings are a noble’s game, a setup for pompous warriors to feel like they’re gaining honor or some shit by bashing each other with swords in front of an audience. Everyone knows that, just like everyone knows that the games are often fixed by people like Beraht. It’s usually simple enough to interfere with the smaller Provings that happen every week or so. But _today’s_ Provings are part of the ceremony for the surface visitors and the king’s army. And Provings weren’t involved in Darvis’s usual line of work- he was a thief, not a bookee. 

“The fighter Beraht has money on is a bit of underdog. We need to make sure he has a certain advantage over his opponents.” Leske fishes a vial out from his belt and rolls it casually between his fingers. “You’re the quickest thief in Dust Town, aren’t you? Beraht wants you to do some reverse pick-pocketing. A bit of this in the opponent’s drink, and our guy is guaranteed a win.”

“And how are we supposed to get within fifty feet of the place?”

Leske pockets the vial and shrugs. “Beraht got us papers. I didn’t exactly ask a lot of questions.”

Darvis frowns. The Provings will be crawling with the higher castes. Getting in will be risky enough, let alone sneaking drugs into a warrior’s drink. But the only thing more dangerous than getting caught by the guard is defying Beraht. Still, Darvis sighs. “I don’t like it.”

“What a shock. You’re usually in such a _pleasant_ mood.” Leske jabs Darvis playfully with his elbow, and Darvis pushes him away with a huff.

His attention slides away from Darvis as they walk through the town. They’ve both lived on these streets their whole lives, and greetings are exchanged with casual familiarity. Or rather, Leske exchanges familiar greetings while Darvis mutters under his breath. This is how the two of them have always been; Leske chatting and joking openly as Darvis hangs back under a cloud of dark humor. By all rights they should drive each other crazy. Somehow, they don’t.

“You two!” One voice in particular cuts through the street, and Leske adopts a charismatic smile as they approach an old, bedraggled woman sitting by a makeshift tent on the side of the street. She sits awkwardly, her bad legs hidden by a long blanket, and gives them a lopsided grin. “Spare any coin today, boys?”

“My lovely Nadezda!” Leske swoops forward to pat her hand. “How are you this fine day?”

“I’d be better with some coin,” she replies, turning her gaze to each of them in turn.

Darvis raises an eyebrow. “Seriously? Do we _look_ like we have coin to spare?”

“You watch your tone around your elders!” Nadezda says, shaking a finger at him. “You’re certainly better off than I am. Would it kill either of you to show a bit of charity?”

“Sadly, it very well might,” Leske says, pulling away from the woman. “We have urgent business to attend to.”

She waves them off. “Yes, yes, scurry off to tend to Beraht. But when he pays you, remember those who could use a spare piece of silver.”

The comment earns a grim chuckle from Darvis. “I promise, the day I have a silver to spare, I’ll let you know.”

“And you watch that mouth of yours!” she calls as they walk away. Leske shakes his head and laughs.

“Always a pleasure!” he calls back. But Darvis knows that beneath the levity, Nadezda makes him nervous. She was like them once- an errand runner for the Carta. But she got unlucky. One encounter in the guards was all it took, and after they broke her kneecaps beyond repair, she was useless to the Carta. Now she spends her days begging in the streets and reminding people like Darvis and Leske how easily they could suffer the same fate.

 

Getting into the Provings turns out to be shockingly simple. Leske flashes some papers at the guard at the entrance, who takes one look and hurries him and Darvis through a side entrance. They move quickly through the hallways to the warrior’s quarters.

“The guy we’re betting on is Everd. He’s fighting…ah! Here we are!” Leske motions to a particular room. “They all get ale before the fight- it should be in here waiting for him.” Leske presses against the wall next to the doorway, keeping watch from the shadows as Darvis pulls out a lockpick and begins to work.

The Provings hall is impressive- all sturdy pillars and carved walls and high ceilings meant to seem intimidating, but the locks are shit. The door opens easily, and the ale is waiting inside just as Leske promised. It takes less than a minute to finish the task, and as they leave Darvis is marveling at how simple the job was.

His brief optimism is rudely interrupted when they pass a room and Darvis catches sight of a man sprawled on the floor in a drunken stupor.

“Leske, did you say our guy was _Everd?”_

“Yeah, why?” Leske follows Darvis’s gaze- first to the man on the floor, then to the nameplate next to the doorframe. “ _Shit.”_

Darvis swiftly moves into the room, pulling Leske in behind him. “Shit, shit, _shit,”_ he echoes as the familiar stench of alcohol hits him. He prods the man cautiously with his toe, and gets only a grunt in return. “He’s not winning anything in this state. This is bad for Beraht.”

Leske puts a hand to his temple, his typical easy expression marred with worry. “This is bad for _us_. If this sod doesn’t win, Beraht will gut us and feed us the nugs. And that’s a direct quote. This idiot’s going to get us killed unless we do something.”

“Well what the fuck are we supposed to do?” Darvis demands. He prods the drunk man harder. “Get _up,_ you useless…” he continues muttering and kicking the man until Leske grabs his arm. A grin is sketched on his face now, and he’s looking at Darvis expectantly.

“Aren’t you supposed to be the meanest thing with a blade in Orzamaar?”

“I thought I was the quickest thief in Dust Town,” Darvis says cautiously. He knows Leske too well to think that flattery like this will lead to anything good.

Leske shrugs off his comment. “Everd’s armor is right here. Helmet and everything. And you’re just the right size.”

It takes a moment for the implication to set in. Darvis stares at Leske. “No.”

“Come on-“

“ _No._ If I get caught these nobles will have my head-”

“Beraht will have _both_ our heads if we let this asshole lose.” A voice rings out from the hallway, calling for the fighters, and Leske gives Darvis a frantic, pleading look. “We don’t have time to argue about this, and even if we did we wouldn’t have a better option.”

“It’s a terrible idea!” Darvis tugs at his beard anxiously, looking between Everd, the armor laid out neatly near the door, and Leske’s desperate expression.

“It’ll be fine! Trust me!”

Darvis groans, but he knows Leske is right. If they leave now, Everd will be disqualified. The Carta will lose a lot of money. And Beraht will take out his frustration on all of them.

“Fucking _fine!_ Help me get this armor on.”

Leske smirks and hurries to help Darvis strap on the noble’s armor. It’s heavier than Darvis is used to, and it takes some maneuvering to fully hide his braided beard and long hair, but in the end Darvis is ready to enter the Provings with a false name and a stolen sword.

“This is a _terrible_ idea,” he repeats to Leske before he leaves, but Leske only chuckles. His smile is wide, although his eyes betray the slightest hint of worry.

“Don’t talk and you’ll be fine. Now go kick some upper-caste ass.”


	3. A Princess And A Plot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marja Aeducan has been planning this moment her entire life. But when politics come into play, nothing goes according to plan.

For the tenth time that morning, Marja twists in front of her mirror to check the buckles on her armor. The straps, the fitting, the polish- everything needs to be _perfect_ for today if she’s going to stand up to the scrutiny of the Assembly. She’s brought out her best armor for the occasion-the suit of mail once belonged to her great-grandmother, the Assembly should appreciate that- and her pale hair is braided elaborately in the latest fashion. As long as it took, it was worth it. Now that she’s finally taking command of her own military commission, she’s not going to ruin it by showing up to court looking like some common soldier.

“Your shield, my lady?”

Gorim stands at her doorway, mildly observing Marja’s self-inspection. “Yes, yes. I can’t let people forget what we’re celebrating; they should see me as warrior.”

“As opposed to the Paragon of Beauty?” Gorim asks with a teasing smirk, and Marja playfully bats his shoulder.

“You’re impossible,” she says, but she can’t deny that his mere presence makes her feel better. Gorim’s armor has also been painstakingly polished, and his golden-brown hair is recently trimmed. As Marja’s second, Gorim has just as much at stake today as she does. And yet he manages to smile jokingly at her as if it were any other day.

“One can’t take all this marching about too seriously. It’s not good for the health.” He smiles easily. Marja rolls her eyes indulgently as she exits her room and Gorim falls easily into step at her side.  “Speaking of, what’s the plan of attack?”

Marja tilts her head back in thought. The Diamond Quarter will be full today, not just of nobles but of merchants and smiths and warriors all decked out for ceremony. No better time to see and be seen. “We’ll browse the market, make an appearance at the Provings, and be back in time for the banquet. And try our hardest to avoid Trian.”

Gorim’s face falls a fraction. “Aye, he’s in a state today. I heard him raging at one of the servants this morning from two rooms away.”

“Prick,” Marja mutters, but that's the brother she knoww. “Perhaps we should go to the Provings first. We won’t run into him there. The whole spectacle is _beneath_ our beloved prince _.”_

“There won’t be much peace for you at the Provings,” Gorim says, a laugh creeping into his voice. “From what I hear, half the men fighting today will be claiming to do so in your honor. You’ll have quite a few suitors clamoring for your favor. Lord Harrowmont in particular is convinced that one of his sons will sweep you off your feet.”

Marja swallows down a frustrated sigh. She _knows_ that such courtship is an inherent part of the political games they play in the Assembly; any such alliance she makes could affect the entire city for years to come. She acknowledges that eventually, she will likely have to throw herself on the sword of marriage for the sake of such politics. The knowledge doesn’t make the process any less grating.

“Perhaps I’ll meet these suitors in the arena,” she says scathingly. “We’ll see who knocks who off their feet.”

Gorim frowns. “The traditionalists may see that as an insult.”

“The traditionalists take most things as an insult. The people would love it.” The more Marja thinks about it, the more appealing the idea is. “And so would Father, for that matter. Nobody in the Assembly would argue with him.”

Noise from the gathering outside becomes more obvious as Marja and Gorim approach the large palace door. Marja takes a deep breath and schools her expression into a smile. The celebrations are in full swing now; the court is waiting.

“Ready to head into battle?” Marja asks Gorim, her hand on the door.

Gorim inclines his head. “I always am, my lady.”

 

The streets of the Diamond Quarter are as full as Marja expected, and it seems that everyone in attendance requires a word with the princess. Marja mills about with the people, doling out flattery and intimidation as needed. In between conversations, she and Gorim exchange comments in low tones. One noble throws sharp words after a disagreement; he will need to be watched, possibly blackmailed to prevent further conflict. Another seems over-eager in her compliments; she’s fishing for a favor, which they might be able to work to their advantage. Everything is mentally filed away for future use.

Eventually, an all-too familiar voice cuts through the crowd. “Marja!”

Marja bites down on her lip to stop herself from cursing aloud. Gorim tenses beside her, and Marja lays a reassuring hand on his arm before turning to greet her brother. “Astra vala, Trian!”

Trian looks as stiff and pomous as always. Behind him, Bhelen grins. Although all three siblings share the Aeducan looks- pale blonde hair, strong features, grey eyes- the two brothers could not be more different in personality. Marja can’t help but feel a pang of sympathy as she wonders how much of the day Bhelen has already spent tending to Trian’s moods.  Unlike Trian, Bhelen greets Marja with enthusiasm. “Astra vala! It’s a pleasant surprise to see you out in the market.”

“Yes,” Trian adds, eyes narrowed. “Especially since you _should_ be attending our father at the feast today. Have you so little respect for him that you ignore his wishes to mill about with common folk?”

Gorim frowns. “Lord Harrowmont told me we wouldn’t be needed for hours at least-”

“Silence!” Trian spits at Gorim. “If I want the opinion of my sibling’s second, I will ask for it.”

“Don’t speak to Gorim that way!” Marja snaps immediately. Trian turns angrily to her, and she fights to push back the stab of regret. She’s had a lifetime of experience in dealing with her brother; she should know better than to provoke him. He’d always had more temper than tact, and is prone to letting personal issues spill over into political matters. It’s easier for everyone involved if Marja stays on his good side.

But she refuses to stand by while he treats Gorim like dirt. Marja stares her brother down steadily, positioning herself between him and Gorim as she does so.

“I speak to lower houses as they should be spoken to,” Trian says slowly, as if explaining a simple concept to a rather dull-witted child. “Now go do as I say.”

Marja bristles at the order, but forces herself to remain calm. The last thing she needs is a shouting match with her brother on the streets for all to see. When she does speak, her voice is soft but sharp. “It truly is adorable how you think you can order me around, you know. It’s almost as though you think you’re some kind of king.”

Trian’s face turns an impressive shade of red. “I’d advise you to watch that tongue, dear sister. Sometimes I think you forget who the heir actually is.” He stalks away, turning over his shoulder to shout, “Bhelen!”

Bhelen sighs darkly at the order, but he shakes it off and follows his brother with an apologetic glance at Marja as he goes.

 _Well, that could have gone worse,_ Marja thinks. Beside her, Gorim fidgets unhappily. Trian intimidates Gorim more than he’d like to admit- Trian has that effect on a lot of people, unfortunately. A side effect of being next in line for the throne, Marja supposes, although that may not be a position he holds much longer.

Marja mentally pulls herself back from the thought. There are rumors, yes, and the rumors grow with each passing day. Anyone with eyes can see that Marja is the king’s true favorite, and Trian’s attitude has done little to earn him any steadfast allies in the Court. It would not be completely unreasonable to expect the king to pass over his eldest son. But it would be dangerous for Marja to boldly assume he intends to do so, and so for now she plays her part and tries not to antagonize her brother any more than is strictly necessary.

“Ignore him, at least for today,” Marja says firmly to Gorim. “We’ve a lot to look forward to. Let’s not let Trian ruin it.”

 

They never do make it to the Provings, unfortunately. The news reaches them before they even leave the Diamond Quarter- the Provings came to an abrupt end due to some scandal, although nobody quite agrees upon what happened. Any details that made it past the arena are muddled- Marja hears contradicting reports that ring with various degrees of truth.

With few other options, Marja and Gorim return to the palace. The sense of urgency that permeated the streets is absent here; the nobles drift through the banquet hall under a façade of calm opulence. Still, when Marja at last finds her father, he is deep in conversation with a group of guards.

“Then _take care of it,”_ he orders fiercely, and the guards hurry away. The king sighs and raises a hand to his head in frustration. In moments like this, it’s easy to see how King Endrin earned every silver hair in his long beard.

“Astra vala, Father,” Marja says, and his look of anxiety melts away.

“Astra vala, my daughter.” His wrinkled face breaks into a fond smile. “How fine you look in your great-grandmother’s armor.”

“I’m honored to wear it,” Marja replies, bowing her head slightly in respect. “What news do you have of the Provings today? I’m afraid I’ve only heard rumors so far.”

Her father shakes his head. “The guard is sorting everything out as we speak. We’ll have the full story by tomorrow or they shall answer for their incompetence. But we should not allow such a thing to sully our ceremony tonight.” A scowl crosses his face. “Sadly, our guest of honor does not agree. Our Warden friend was to be in attendance tonight, but he insists on aiding with the search. I can only hope this doesn’t interfere with our mission tomorrow.”

Marja raises an eyebrow. “What in the world has happened that would cause a Warden to miss your fine feast?”

“The Wardens have a habit of seeking out oddities, I’m afraid,” the king sighs. “And this one has obviously not come to pay mind to ceremony. He claims a Blight is on the way and that they need the troops. But there are some things surfacers cannot understand.” As the king continues to speak, anger begins to color his words. “What the Casteless did today brought dishonor to many fighters in the Proving. They will see him answer for his actions, not be whisked away to join their surface army.”

Marja raises her eyebrows. A Casteless fighting in the Provings? The rumors circulating the city are beginning to make sense. “You mean this person defeated our fighters? Perhaps the Warden’s interest is not unearned. If there is something to be gained from enlisting such a fighter…”

“Not this again.” Her father sounds tired, but Marja presses on.

“If we allow Casteless to join in the army-”

“I have heard this argument from you and Bhelen enough times.” The reply is sharp, and Marja holds back her words. What the king says is true- the argument is long-standing. The more progressive families of the Court are in support of the allowance of those born Castless to join the Warrior Caste. It is a sharp break from tradition, but it would go far in improving the lives of many within the city. More practically, it would bolster the ranks of the dwindling dwarven army and drain influence from the Carta. No matter how many times Marja and her younger brother make these points, however, the majority of the Assembly remains steadfastly traditional. Trian stands with them, and the power of the crown prince outweighs that of his siblings.

To his credit, the king has always allowed the discussion to be had, although he has little patience with it. Tonight, especially, his nerves are worn thin, and Marja knows she should tread softly. “I merely mean to express my surprise that an untrained alley fighter would cause so much trouble for the Proving participants. It would seem that either this Casteless is worthy of the Warrior title, or our actual warriors are not.”

The king gives her a stern frown that slowly shifts into a begrudging look of appreciation. “Well put as always, my girl. But this is an argument we should save for the Assembly. Tonight, we celebrate your first command and prepare for the morning’s battle. Come, the other nobles await.”

 

“We’re so close, Gorim,” Marja says as they return to the palace that night. The hour is late, and the halls are empty but for the occasional servant passing by. Without the crowd of the court before her, Marja feels uncharacteristically apprehensive. “I know the court loves to gossip, but… what do you think will come of all this? They say my father wishes to make me heir in the end, but it’s all speculation at this point.”

Gorim considers this for a moment, and Marja feels a rush of gratitude. She knows he will answer honestly, without fawning or worrying over her ego. At last, he says, “King Endrin will be hesitant to do something too soon. While there is precedent, it’s an uncommon act, and one that may be questioned. But he also sees the flaws in Trian, and it is obvious to all he favors you. A strong success from you would be the only excuse he needs to officially make the decision.”

Marja lets out a long breath. The words have been whispered around her for some time now, but she has scarcely let herself believe them. _Future Queen of Orzammar._ Try as she might to remain realistic, she wants this fiercely; it feels as if her whole life has been leading up to the title. Trian may be her blood, and she remembers a time before they resented each other, but she also knows his temper and obstinance in the face of progress would only bring harm to their city.

“Then let’s give my father a strong success,” she says, and Gorim nods.

“May the ancestors look down on us with pride,” he whispers, almost to himself.

Marja smiles, her eyes distant, already imagining the possibilities. “I can see it, Gorim. We are going to be _spectacular.”_

Suddenly, a figure darts around the corner, looking feverishly behind him. It’s Bhelen, and when he sees Marja he grabs her arm and without explanation ushers her into an empty room.

“Bhelen! What on earth-”

“Marja, I’m so glad I ran into you. There is something _very_ important we need to discuss immediately.”

“Prince Bhelen-” Gorim begins, following closely behind Marja, but his words halt when the prince whirls around on him. He regards Gorim for a moment, then nods.

“Yes, we can trust you.”

“Bhelen, what’s happened?” Marja demands. Her brother turns to her, the concern clear on his face, and when he speaks his voice is heavy.

“Trian is going to kill you.”

 


	4. Consequences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darvis and Leske's plan brings forth some unforeseen complications.

Darvis is enjoying this far more than he probably should.

This is the dumbest, most reckless thing he’s done in a long time. He should be more cautious, should be taking more care to properly impersonate a noble-blooded warrior. He probably shouldn’t be goading the other fighters with crass insults or using street-fighting techniques some would consider dishonorable.

But _fuck it,_ he’s having _fun._

Darvis whips around his opponent, striking out at his knee as he dodges the slow, heavy blow of an axe. The man hits the ground, and before he can recover Darvis plants a foot solidly in his back. The man’s helmet flies off as he goes sprawling across the floor, laid flat and out of breath, and Darvis takes advantage of the moment to bring the hilt of a dagger down hard on his head.

Darvis grins viciously beneath his visor. “Take that, you nug-humping noble.” The man is beyond hearing him, but the thought of the headache he’d be waking up with fills Darvis with vindictive joy. Cheers from the stands- cheers for _him-_ echo louder through the arena. The eyes of so many upon him feels unnatural, but at this moment, with adrenaline rushing through his veins, Darvis can’t help but enjoy it.

A hush falls over the crowd as the announcer stands and raises his arms. “Orzammar!” the man booms, sweeping a dramatic hand toward Darvis. Behind him, the human-the Warden, Darivs assumes- watches with quiet interest. His intense gaze sends prickles down Darvis’s skin, and he doesn’t look away, even as the announcer continues to bellow. “I present your champion of the Provings- Sir Everd!”

The crowd erupts, even louder than before. _I did it,_ Darivs thinks deliriously. He _won._ He impersonated a warrior and won the Provings and finished Beraht’s mission. The cheers of the crowd make him dizzy and bold, filling his head like alcohol. Darvis thrusts his fist victoriously into the air, and the crowd gets even louder.

A small protest rings from the practical part of his mind. _Get out of here now, idiot. Get to Everd’s room and make the switch._

 _In a minute,_ he retorts to himself, squashing down the thought. He can enjoy the adoration of the crowds for just a bit longer. Darvis grants the audience a deep bow, and eventually beings edging his way- slowly- to the arena’s exit.

He’s nearly there when he’s slammed into by a drunk, half-dressed Everd.

“M’here!” the man cries, lurching forward, lost in an alcoholic haze. Darvis’s blood runs cold as the cries from the crowd halt in confusion.

_Time to go, time to go, time to go!_

He whirls around but the exit is blocked by guards who point at him accusingly. From his place on the podium, the announcer is shouting angrily. “Who is this? _Who are you?!?”_

Darvis’s mind is racing for an answer, a way out of this, but there aren’t many options. He turns to the guards, holding up his hands pleadingly. “I’m Everd! I demand you arrest this fraud!”

One of the guards hesitates, and Darvis takes the chance to make a run for it, but this time he isn’t fast enough. The guards wrestle him down, their grip tight on his arms, and before he can break free the helmet is ripped from his head.

As Darvis’s face is bared and his brand becomes visible to all, the crowd moves from confused to enraged. Vicious screams fill the arena, the cries of people booing and calling for his head. Darvis has just enough time to think _I might not be getting out of this one,_ before a guard slams his head into the ground and the world goes dark.

 

A heavy, throbbing pain in his head is what finally manages to wake Darvis. His consciousness returns bit by bit, reluctantly acknowledging the hammering in his skull. A groan escapes his lips, and after a few moments of dull confusion, the events of the day come running back.

Darvis jerks up in a panic, inviting a torturous rush of pain from…pretty much everywhere. The guards aren’t known for being gentle at the best of times, but they _really_ let him have it today.

“Look who’s alive!”

Leske’s familiar voice is a small source of comfort, even as Darvis looks up and realizes he’s speaking from a cell across the room. They’re _both_ in cells- dark and dusty and eerily familiar.

“Alive for now,” Darvis replies, testing his sore muscles as he stands up. “Last I remember, half the city wants to execute me for ridiculing the warrior caste.”

“Nah, that’s the concussion talking,” Leske says breezily, leaning against the bars of his own cell. “For ridiculing the warrior caste, you get a public whipping. And you stole the armor, which calls for the loss of your left hand. And you befouled the smith’s work, so there goes your right hand. You’ll be flayed for impersonating a higher caste. And of course you polluted the Proving- _that’s_ what you’ll finally be put to death for.”

“You’ve put a lot of thought into this,” Darvis says flatly, and Leske only grins.

“You were out for a while. Not much else to think about down here.”

“And I think _you_ technically stole the armor. I just wore it.”

“Fine, keep your left hand, then,” Leske says with a roll of his eyes. “Anyway, that’s only if the guards get their hands on you. What the Carta has in mind is probably much worse.”

Darvis blinks a few times at his surroundings. So _that’s_ why this feels familiar- these are the Carta dungeons, not the city’s. “What _happened?”_

“You mean after you showed your stupid branded face to the entire fucking city?” Leske’s words grow sharp, and Darvis shoots him a glare.

“I didn’t exactly have a choice in that. _Your_ idea didn’t have much of an escape plan.”

 _“My_ idea assumed you would get away from the crowds as soon as you could. Anyway, the guards hauled you off, but Beraht must have some deep connections. Guess he really wanted to punish you himself. I tried to lay low, but it’s not easy to hide from Beraht. His guys picked me up and threw me in here.” Leske gives his cell door a dirty look, as if he could will it open through sheer malice.

“Oh, _good,_ you’re awake!”

Darvis knows the cool voice that cuts through the dungeons. He knows the expression that will accompany it even before he turns to see Jarvia leaning in the doorway. She meets his glare with a sly smirk.

“You caused a lot of trouble today, you know. The Carta lost a lot of money because of your little stunt. And now the Assembly is calling for investigations. I think the only thing Beraht hates more than losing money is being investigated.” Jarvia takes a few steps closer to Darvis’ cell, eying him the way a deepstalker eyes a nug. “You can’t _begin_ to imagine the state he was in when he told me to retrieve you.”

“Look, we didn’t have much of a choice-” Darvis tries to explain, but Jarvia cuts him off.

“You think we want your excuses? You made a lot of trouble for us, and now you’re a liability.” She narrows her eyes, and chills run down Darvis’ spine. Beraht is one thing- vicious and brutal, certainly, but he has a straightforward way of handling things. He doesn’t enlist the aid of his second-in-command unless he wants to drag things out, and Jarvia has built herself a reputation for being _creative._

As if she can sense his unease, Jarvia’s expression slips into one of cold amusement. A thought comes unbidden to Darvis’s head- _at least the deepstalker doesn’t play with its food._

But Jarvia doesn’t seem to have any intentions of harming them- yet, at least. She strolls back to the door, barely giving Leske a glance on her way out. “Beraht will want to know that you’re awake. Enjoy the rest of your time, boys. There’s not much left.”

Darvis looks at Leske, and he knows they’re thinking the same thing.

_We need to get out of here._

“What do you think you’re doing?!”

Darvis looks up at the guard, annoyed. The men Jarvia left to guard their cells are remarkably single-minded. The lock on the barred door would be easily picked if he had a little time, but he can’t even glance at the thing without inviting the guard’s wrath.

“I’m just sitting here, the way I’ve been the last ten times you checked in. Just nicely waiting for my death.”

The guard gives Darvis a dirty look but stalks away, appeased for the moment. Leske watches the exchange sullenly. As the guard walks away, he mouths to Darvis, _Do something!_ and looks pointedly at the lock.

Darvis answers with a pointed look of his own, motioning to the guard. _You first._

“Hey! Stop with all the waving around!”

Leske heaves a silent sigh, but gives Darvis a shrug that says _Fine. Allow me._ He adopts a crouched posture and begins to stagger around his cell. “ _Ohhhh. Uggghhh._ Please, I need help! Something’s wrong! I’m going to-” he cuts off midsentence and falls forward to the ground, making gurgling noises and twitching.

A bit dramatic in Darvis’s opinion, but it certainly attracts the attention of the guard. He runs right up the door, staring at Leske’s prone body in confusion. “What the blazes is wrong with him?”

“Looks like the… plague, if you ask me,” Darvis says wildly. “Horribly contagious in the final stages, you know. We’re all in danger being in the same room as him!”

The guard pales, and he looks nervously around the room. “Aw shit. I don’t get paid enough to be stuck down here with the plague.” He hovers hesitantly by the door, weighing his options. In the end, it seems the threat of Leske’s mysterious sickness is enough to counteract his orders.

“I’m going to find Beraht! This better not be a trick!”

The dungeon door slams shut behind him, and Leske immediately pops up with a chuckle. “Where does Beraht find the idiots that work here?”

“I hope you realize that when you talk about idiots that work for Beraht, that includes us.”

“Hey, I never claimed either of us a genius. And we won’t be alive to argue about it if we don’t get out of here soon. How’s that lock looking?”

“Easy enough.” The bars of Darvis’s door are just wide enough to fit his arm through, and with a bit of twisting he can reach the lock. His weapons had been taken, of course, but over the years Darvis had learned to carry countless pins stored in his pockets and belts. He’d even braided some of Rica’s old hair pins into his beard.

 _I wonder if Rica knows where I am right now,_ he thinks. He doesn’t like the mental image of Rica home on her own, wondering what’s happened to him. Even worse is the thought that Beraht has already had his cronies find her and bring her here, where she’ll be deemed a traitor by association.

_I can’t let these bastards hurt her._

Darvis dismantles the lock with more ferocity than tact, and it soon lies in pieces on the floor. Leske’s lock is next, and just like that the two dwarves are free- or as free as they can be while still in the Carta dungeons. Leske immediately heads for an old chest in the edge of the room, digging through until he finds their confiscated armor and weapons. He pulls the daggers out, turning them over thoughtfully in his hands.

“You know how this is going to end, right?” Leske says, gaze flickering between Darvis and the daggers. “At this point, either Beraht is finally going to kill you, or…”

“Or I kill him.” Darvis can’t count how many times he’s made that threat before. Never to Beraht’s face, of course, but the thought was constantly in his mind. Even so, it had always been just a threat. Beraht had the power of the Carta behind him- some duster thief like Darvis couldn’t take him down.

But then, some Duster thief couldn’t win the Provings, either.

Darvis reaches out for the dagger. “Are you ready to do something incredibly stupid?”

A sharp grin appears on Leske’s face. “Always.”

 

The tunnels that make up the Carta headquarters are long and winding, but Leske and Darvis know the way. They move quickly and quietly, making quick work of any unfortunate guards that they encounter. Darvis is on high alert for Beraht, but they make it nearly all the way to the exit without finding any sign of him.

And then, at last, they hear a familiar voice through the walls. Darvis moves quietly to stand against the door, Leske acting as his shadow. They’re so _close-_ if they can make it through these last couple of rooms, they’d be out of the Carta’s clutches. But it wouldn’t last, not while Beraht lives. They need to take care of him now. Darvis edges the door open, and gets a peek of Beraht standing around a table with two of his henchmen.

“Yes, I’m sure!” Beraht’s irritated voice fills the room. “She’s been singing the same song about having a patron for weeks. I’m sick of it. After what her brother pulled, I’m done with this entire family. They’re cut off.”

One of the henchmen grins. “I’ll be happy to deliver that news. I’ve been wanting to get my hands on that girl for too long.”

 _That’s it,_ Darvis thinks. _They all die._ Before he loses his nerve, Darvis bursts into the room, daggers at the ready. The men inside jump up in alarm, but not quickly enough. Darvis catches the first henchman by surprise, and his dagger slides easily across the man’s throat. “You’re not going to lay a finger on my sister!”

Beraht has pulled his own weapon now. “What is _that_ doing out of its cage? Can’t anybody here do their fucking job?”

“Speaking of jobs,” Davis says, “I’d like to officially quit.” He darts forward to Beraht, daggers out, and manages to catch Beraht in the arm. A pained hiss escapes from Beraht’s lips, and he retaliates by driving a knee into Darvis’s stomach and bringing him to the ground.

From somewhere behind him, Darvis can hear Leske scuffling with the other henchman. He doesn’t have much time to focus on that, however, as Beraht launches his foot in Darvis’s stomach. It drives the breath from him, and he barely sees the knife following in time to dodge out of the way.

Blindly, he strikes out with his fists, making contact and sending Beraht back a few feet. Jumping up, Darvis once again leaps forward with daggers and manages to land another hit, this time leaving a long, bloody scar on Beraht’s face. Beraht screams and raises a hand to his face, and it’s all the distraction Darvis needs to bring the dagger down one final time.

The ruckus behind him fades, and Leske approaches only to stop in his tracks. “Holy sodding _shit.”_

Now that the adrenaline is leaving his system, Darvis can’t quite believe what just happened. He _won._ He beat Beraht, leader of the Carta, man who’d spent the last decade terrorizing his family. Darvis _won._

“That was amazing!” Leske is out of breath and clutching a wound in his side, but he’s also laughing, and he claps a hand on Darvis’s shoulder. “You just charged right in here and killed him! Beraht’s _dead_ and we’re _alive!_ We’re the luckiest fucking dusters in Orzammar!”

“For once, I think you’re right,” Darvis replies, letting out a shaky laugh of his own. He glances nervously around the room. “But we should probably leave before our luck runs out.”

“Good point,” Leske mutters, his elation fading a bit. “We need to figure out a good place to hide. There are still a lot of people who want to kill you.”

“Yeah, I think I’m getting used to that. But we need to find Rica first.”

“Of course we do,” Leske sighs. “Hey, when we see Rica, could you tell her that I was the one who killed Beraht? That’d impress her, don’t you think?”

Darvis shoots him a warning look. “I’m still holding a weapon, you know.”

“Never mind, then.” Leske follows Darvis to the door. “Just remember, we need to keep a low profile.”

The street is clear when they leave- for about thirty seconds. Almost immediately, people begin shouting. Darvis looks in the direction of the noise, and to his horror sees a patrol of city guards, one of them pointing straight at him. Darvis kicks himself- he’s probably the most wanted criminal in Orzamaar right now. Of course he’d be spotted right away.

He and Leske begin to run, but it’s too late. They’re surrounded by angry guardsmen, all wielding swords that are currently being pointed right at Darvis and Leske.


	5. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brother, a betrayal. Marja knows what to expect, but the truth still takes her by surprise.

Marja isn’t surprised by the news Bhelen gives her, and that might be the worst part.

It doesn’t take Bhelen long to explain the situation. “He’s decided you’re a threat to him taking the throne,” he says hurriedly, casting a furtive glance at the door. “And to be completely honest, he’s probably right. Compared to you, he’s not… personable. And with the mission tomorrow…”

“A success will make me more of a threat,” Marja finishes, fists clenching at her sides. Hadn’t she been telling Gorim what the mission would mean for her future? She should have known Trian would have the same thoughts. And he’s hated her for a long time.

“And you know his pride would never allow him to step down.” Bhelen’s eyes his sister with concern, waiting for her reaction, but she remains quiet.

Yes, Trian’s hated her for a long time. And assassination among the nobles is as ancient and respected as any other Orzammar tradition. That Trian wants her dead is no surprise, but suspicion and confirmation are vastly different. An icy fury threatens to sweep over her, but she bites down on her tongue and forces herself to take a calming breath. Anger leads to idiocy, and she can’t afford that right now.

“You say he’s finally making his move. Do you have any details?”

Bhelen scoffs. “He doesn’t trust me. I was lucky to hear what I did. But the way things are going, he’ll be acting fast. If you want to fight back, you’ll need to act faster.”

“Gorim?” Her voice comes out harsh, and she takes another steadying breath before continuing. “What do you think about all of this?”

He hesitates, eyes flickering towards Bhelen. “May I speak freely, my lady?”

“Of course.”

“Trian has friends in the Assembly, but not enough to become king. Even those who support his policies know he would make a terrible leader. But he has enough power to make things very ugly for you. To kill him now would save a lot of bloodshed later.” His voice is low and solemn. He meets Marja’s eyes with a steady gaze as he speaks, and she knows he truly believes this.

The strategist in Marja knows he’s right. Trian will only ever be against her, and taking him out while she has the advantage would be the practical thing to do. The smart thing. And it would only be a matter of self-defense- no reason for a sick sliver of guilt to curl in her stomach underneath the initial anger.

But succession is a tricky matter. Acting too rashly could land her in trouble far worse than whatever Trian has in mind.

“I want more information,” Marja says decisively. “I’d prefer to know what Trian’s next move is before we go charging out with our swords drawn.” Gorim’s brows furrow in worry, and Marja gives him a reassuring smile. “I’m not afraid of Trian. Whatever he does, you know he’s no match for me.”

 

Despite her confidence, Marja can’t help the wariness that gnaws on her nerves the next day in the Deep Roads. She moves cautiously through the tunnels, her greatsword in hand and her eyes on the two newcomers put under her command. She’s never worked with these men before, but her father assigned them to her and she can hardly argue with the king.

Marja doesn’t like surprises, whether good or bad. And the recruits are nothing compared to the surprise mission her father sprung on her. It should be a good thing- her father is entrusting her with the retrieval of an ancestor’s shield, an ancient artifact from the ruins that possesses extreme importance to the Aeducans. But in light of recent discoveries, Marja can’t help but suspect that her brother had something to do with the unexpected mission that keeps her and Gorim separated from the rest of the group.

In spite of Marja’s misgivings, everything seems to be moving according to plan- until they locate the shield. After a good deal of searching and shuffling about in the dusty stone corridor, she manages to unearth the prize they were sent after only to be greeted at the cavern exit by looters.

 _Looters._ Somehow that stings more than the fact Trian is trying to kill her in the first place- he thinks that can be accomplished by sending common, grave-robbing _looters_ after her? She almost feels sorry for the poor, outmatched fools. Almost.

Marja dodges out of the path of a swinging sword, bringing her own sword around in a wide arc that sends the man before her flying. He’s thrown against the cave wall with an echoing _thud,_ and doesn’t stir again. Nearby, Gorim sends a sword through the armor of another. He glances at Marja with a laugh. “I haven’t even broken a sweat!”

The entire battle is over within minutes. With relief, Marja notes that her new companions have held nothing back- if this attack were planned, they have no part in it. All this time, she had been imagining some great conspiracy from Trian, but it’s possible his assassination attempt is as simple as an ambush in an isolated tunnel.

Gorim confirms her suspicions. “My Lady, look.” He’s  standing over the body of one of the attackers, and as he motions forward Marja sees what has caught his attention. There, on the dead man’s hand, is a royal signet ring.

“I can only think of one place he would have gotten that,” Marja mutters, prying the ring loose. It’s a small thing, but it feels heavy in her hand. The moment is bittersweet; she now holds in her hand tangible proof that her brother has tried to end her life.

And she has everything she needs. Marja pockets the ring and checks that the old shield is still strapped to her back. All of the pieces are in place- now, it’s time to act.

Marja leads her men through the tunnels quickly, mind racing as she plots out the conversation she’ll with her father when the time is right. Trian will be taken by the guard, possibly exiled to the surface. That’s the proper punishment for this kind of treason. However prudent it may have been to simply eliminate him, Marja can’t help but feel a small gleam of relief at not having to go that far.

 

That relief is shattered when she reaches the rendezvous point and turns a corner to find Trian laying facedown on the stone floor, a pool of blood congealing beneath him.

A small, choked noise escaped her lips and before she fully realizes what’s happened she’s kneeling beside him, checking desperately for breath or a pulse. But there’s nothing.

“By the Stone…” Gorim’s voice manages to break through her haze. He’s staring at the body, aghast. “What’s happened?”

More shocked voices begin ringing out, and Marja dimly realizes that more people are pouring into the tunnel. She rises to her feet and staggers backwards from the body, just as her father comes into view.

“ _No!”_ The word comes out in a choked gasp. He races to Trian, taking in the sight with wide, stricken eyes. After a moment of stunned silence, his gaze turns to Marja. His expression shifts from disbelief to outrage. Bhelen stands behind him, and as Marja locks eyes with her younger brother, everything slides into place.

“ _You,”_ she whispers, but he makes no acknowledgement. His eyes leave hers and drift to the body of their brother on the floor. Nausea and guilt and _anger_ hit Marja all at once, and without fully realizing what she’s doing, she’s moving towards Bhelen. For once she has no plan, no thought-out words. All of that has crumbled to dust around her, and all that’s left is the knowledge that Bhelen is a _traitor._

But as Marja moves forward it is her father who intercepts her, with burning eyes and a voice ragged with grief. “Tell me this isn’t what it looks like!”

“I’m sorry, Father,” Bhelen says, his voice of low and full of sorrow. “It seems I was right. We were too late.”

He lays a comforting hand on his father’s shoulder, and something about that gesture is what finally makes Marja snap. She lunges forward with a growl, only to find herself immediately caught in the grips of her father’s guards. She pulls against them but is vastly outnumbered; escape is not an option here, she realizes with a chill.

Marja tries to regain herself, but when she speaks her voice shakes with barely contained rage. “ _I did not do this!”_

“My lady is innocent!” Gorim yells, but King Endrin shakes his head.

“I have no interest in your testimony, Ser Gorim. I know where your loyalty lies.” His gaze moves to the other men, who have so far remained silent. “There were others present. What do they say?”

Marja twists to look at them, but neither man meets her eyes, and she knows what they’re going to say before they speak. “Lady Aeducan approached her brother with a greeting, and attacked him when his guard was down,” the first says.

“We had no time to act,” the other adds. “She threatened us, told us to keep our silence. She was in the midst of disposing of the body when your group arrived earlier than expected, but she had time to strip him of his valuables.”

 _The ring._ Marja’s stomach drops. Trian’s signet ring is still secure in her bag, sure to be found as soon as she is searched. How could she have been so blind?

Gorim is screaming now, shouting insults at the witnesses, until he, too, is restrained by the other warriors. From the position in which she is held, Marja can’t see the entirety of the scuffle, but in the din of fighting and shouting she hears the crack of bones.

“Gorim!” Marja twists and lunges and very nearly breaks free. “Leave him, please! He didn’t do anything. _Neither of us did anything!”_  

Endrin is silent as he watches his daughter struggle. He hesitates, pain clear in his eyes, and for a brief, beautiful moment Marja believes that he will trust her. But at the end of his prolonged silence he only looks away, his face shedding the concern and grief of a father and slipping into the well-practiced, cold expression of a king. “The princess will be judged before the assembly. Bind her and escort her to the dungeons.”

Marja protests and pulls away, but it does no good. She manages one last look at Bhelen, and he gives her a small, smug nod as she is dragged away.

 

_I’m going to kill him._

_I’m going to kill him._

_I’m going to kill him._

The thought is the only thing keeping Marja sane as she stews in the dungeons. She had been dragged here like some common criminal, tossed into a cell without a word from the guards- the guards that are supposed to obey _her_ orders.

Bhelen had outplayed her. _Bhelen_ had outplayed _her._

Marja growls and kicks against the bars of her cell. The tinny sound of iron reverberates through the dungeon, and it makes Marja want to scream. She doesn’t belong here, and she knows that if she can only get a chance to speak to the Assembly, she can convince them.

_And then I’m going to **murder** him._

The thought flashes through her mind with an image of Trian, facedown on the stone, and Marja’s stomach heaves violently. She grits her teeth and swallows a scream. This wasn’t how any of this was supposed to happen.

But if she can just get to the Assembly- to her father- she can salvage _something_ out of this.

The noise of footsteps catches her attention, and she nearly cries in relief at the sight of Gorim approaching her cell. He moves quickly, mouth tight, and the relief is offset by the knowledge he must be delivering bad news.

Nevertheless, Marja is glad to see him. “Gorim, _please_ tell me what’s happening out there.”

He opens his mouth to answer, then hesitates, as if searching for the words. Frustrated, Marja slams her palm against the iron bars in frustration. “Gorim! What is the Assembly saying? When can I speak with them?”

Gorim’s face is somber when he finally answers. “You can’t. They’re not calling for your testimony.” Marja’s cell suddenly seems a lot smaller, and it’s hard for her to focus as Gorim continues to speak. “With Trian dead, Bhelen has taken his place in the Assembly. He introduced a motion to condemn you immediately, and…” Gorim trails off, shaking his head. His hands clench into fist, and when he continues his voice shakes with anger.

“And it passed! He had half the Assembly willing to vote on something completely against tradition and justice! He must have been making deals and alliances for months, if not _years.”_

“And I missed it all,” Marja says numbly. She had always been so focused on Trian- the brother who hated her, who wanted her gone. _He_ was the tyrant to Marja’s defiance, while Bhelen was always playing the peacekeeper. How many lies had her younger brother woven, all the while planning _this?_

“ _I’m going to kill him,”_ she growls, fingers curling around the iron bars.

“I don’t think you’ll get that chance. The Assembly has decided on your sentence.” Gorim pauses. “And mine, as well.”

Another spike of guilt courses through Marja, although she hadn’t thought it was possible to feel worse. But this whole time she’d been so concerned about herself, she hadn’t even fully realized that as her second, Gorim’s life was just as destroyed as hers. “What will happen to you?”

Gorim gives her a shaky smile. “They’re not killing me, so… there’s that, at least. But my knighthood will be stripped, my name torn from my family records. They’re sending me to the surface. The guards were… kind enough to let me come here first, but by tomorrow I’ll be in exile.” The smile fades. “Lord Harrowmont moved to do the same for you, but Bhelen’s supporters overwhelmed him.”

Marja swallows and nods. Her failure means the end of Gorim’s legacy in Orzammar, but not his life. He deserves so much more than this- in Marja’s opinion, his loyalty far surpasses Paragon status. But her opinion matters little at the moment. “And what did Bhelen’s supports decide for me?”

Gorim is silent for several long moments. When he finally answers, he does so in quick, tight voice. “You’re to be taken to the Deep Roads to fight darkspawn until you are overwhelmed and killed.”

Marja takes this information with silence, although her knuckles are deathly white as her grip on the iron bars tightens. “My father allowed this?”

“He was not involved. He’s taken ill, according to Lord Harrowmont. Supposedly, the loss of two children at once has taken a toll on his health.”

 _He’s not losing me,_ Marja thinks, _he’s throwing me away._ Anger sears through her veins- at her father, at the nobles, at Trian, and more than anyone at Bhelen, her cowardly, conniving, lying brother. _I’m going to kill him._

Gorim reaches through the bars, grabbing Marja’s arms and distracting her from her thoughts. “Lord Harrowmont sent me here to do more than just say goodbye. He believes you. And he wants you to know that the Grey Wardens are in the Deep Roads. If you can find them… they accept anyone into their ranks. It’s your only chance of escape.”

Grey Wardens. The surfacers who spend their lives as darkspawn-fighting vagabonds. The hope is a hollow one. But it is something all the same. “One chance is all I need.”

A shout rings out from down the dungeon hallway, and Marja knows that their time is drawing to a close. She reaches through the cell bars and grips Gorim’s hand tightly in hers, all the thousands of things she needs to tell him fighting to get out. “Thank you for coming here. And thank you for everything else. I could never have asked for a better second, or a better friend. And… I’m sorry.”

Gorim squeezes her hand. “May the Paragon guide your sword and the Stone hold you up. No matter what happens, my Lady, I was honored to have served you.”

They stay like that for a moment, hands joined between the iron bars of the cell, and then Gorim disappears down the hallway and Marja is left alone with her thoughts. Her plans have all been dashed, and for the first time in her life, she isn’t sure what she is supposed to do. All she knows is that she will find the Wardens. She has to. She will survive. And someday, somehow, she will make her brother pay for what he’s done.


	6. Onwards and Upwards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two dwarves face certain death- until a Warden makes an offer.

“Now would the perfect time for one of your brilliant ideas,” Leske mutters as he positions himself back to back against Darvis.

Darvis sweeps his eyes across the crowd of guards before him. The odds aren’t good. In fact, Darvis might say they’re pretty fucking bad. He and Leske are cornered and outnumbered, and all Darvis can think is that _of course_ he would finally kill Beraht only to be taken down by the damned palace guards.

“Drop your weapons!” The order is shouted gruffly by a man who wears the uniform of a guard captain. He glares at Darvis and Leske through narrowed eyes. “You’ve nowhere to run. Come quietly before we resort to dragging you to the palace by force.”

“I have a hunch force will be involved either way,” Darvis responds. His grip on his dagger tightens. “I think we’ll take our chances.”

The captain gives a scowls and starts forward, his own weapon drawn, but his approach is interrupted as a tall dark-skinned man- a _human-_ pushes his way through the crowd. His presence is easily noticed among the crowd of dwarves, and from the looks of panicked reverence he earns from the guards, Darvis can tell he carries a weighty authority. There’s only one kind of human that can elicit that kind of respect from the Warrior Caste. A Grey Warden.

“One moment, my friend.” He speak in a solemn tone- unhurried, but authoritative, and the captain steps back.

The Warden regards Darvis and Leske with an inscrutable expression. “You had suggested that the criminal known as Beraht was the mastermind behind this trouble. I take it neither of these men are him?”

“No, but they’re his lackeys.” The disdain in the captain’s voice is obvious. “They’ve broken countless laws on his behalf.”

“You should be _thanking_ us,” Darvis snaps. “Beraht’s not going to be causing anybody trouble anymore.”

For the first time, the captain is caught off guard. He blinks at Darvis in disbelief. “ _You_ incapacitated Beraht?”

“If by that you mean I made him _dead,_ then yes.”

“One of the worst criminals Orzammar has ever known!” Leske adds quickly. “And Brosca here put an end to it for good!”

The statement causes a surge of murmuring in the crowd that has gathered around them, and Darvis can’t help but notice the interest with which the Warden is now eyeing him. But the captain doesn’t look appeased. “It doesn’t matter! You are still guilty of numerous crimes, including impersonating a higher caste! And the penalty is death!”

The Warden holds up a hand to quiet the guard. “I have another suggestion.” He turns his attention to Darvis, who immediately feels the hair on the back of his neck prickle under the weight of this man’s stare. “I’m afraid we have not been properly introduced. My name is Duncan, of the Grey Wardens. I have come to Orzammar searching for those with the potential to join in the fight against the Blight. I believe that you fit that description.”

Darvis can only stare back at him in bafflement. “Wait, _what?”_

Duncan smiles, somehow amused, and says, “Let me make the offer formal. I am officially extending the invitation for you to journey with me to the surface and become a Grey Warden.”

“This _brand_ is wanted for treason!” The captain is openly outraged now, and he turns on Duncan in fury. “You cannot do this!”

Duncan remains stoic and unimpressed. “I can, and I am. The Rite of Conscription says the Wardens may take on whomever we deem worthy. If you disagree, I suggest you discuss this with your king.” The guard captain grits his teeth but, after a long moment, deflates. Reluctantly, he motions for the guards behind him to stand down as well.

And just like that, Darvis goes from being surrounded by drawn swords to being face to face with a Warden who has offered to take him away. Duncan looks to him expectantly. “This is not an offer I make lightly. It will mean leaving your people and traveling to the surface, but it is a necessary duty. One that comes with great honor.” Behind him, the guard captain makes a face and spits harshly on the ground.

Darvis is still too busy trying to process this to react. The adrenaline that had been surging through his blood has begun to fade, but uneasiness still pricks at his skin. _This is too easy. It’s a mistake, it’s a trap, something is going to go wrong._ The thoughts chase themselves around his head, all echoing a simple truth- _you don’t get to just walk out of Dust Town._

And yet, it’s happening. “You’re serious?” Darvis says cautiously. “You’ll make me a Warden, just like that?”

“It’s not quite so easy as it sounds,” Duncan replies. “There is great danger involved. But I must say, it does seem to be the best option available to you.”

Darvis glances at Leske, who looks just as shocked as he is. “I… I think I need a moment.”

“Very well.” Duncan turns to address the captain. “I can handle this from here. You may want to report these events back to your king.” The captain shoots one last, dark look at Darvis, but begins to wave the crowd away and bark orders at his guards.

Leske takes advantage of the distraction. He pulls Darvis to the side and punches his shoulder, disbelief plain on his face. “Did Beraht crack your skull in that fight? This guy wants to make you a Warden! Why aren’t you already jumping into his arms?!”

Darvis knocks him away. He wants to come up with a witty retort, but the words die in his throat. Instead, he looks at Leske and asks, “Should I?”

Leske gives him an incredulous look and tries to punch him in the arm again. Darvis dodges and continues quickly, “What about Rica? What about you?”

“Listen to me,” Leske says, his face growing serious. “You stay here, you’re dead. That’s the short of it. You don’t get caught fucking around with the Provings and _live._ And don’t forget what you just did to Beraht! It may have been the best thing I’ve ever seen, but Jarvia is going to be furious. That’s the Carta and the palace both out for your blood. You really think you can take on this entire city at once?”

Darvis heaves a sigh, rubbing his head. He knows he’s dead if he stays here. He knows this offer should be too good to pass up. And he knows there’s a part of him that’s ready to go _now,_ to run up to the surface and never step foot in Orzammar again.

But there’s another part of him, no matter how irrational, that screams he needs to be here for his sister. Leske watches as the conflicting emotions run across Darvis’s face, and finally sighs. “I know you’re worried. But you’re no use to Rica- or to me- as a corpse.”

The words are painful, but true. “Okay. Just…watch out for her. Please.”

Leske grins, although there’s a hint of sadness behind the usual mischief in his eyes. “Don’t I always?”

“Seriously. Or else I’m coming back here with an _army.”_

“Sure you are, duster. Or shall I say, _Warden.”_ Leske does an exaggerated mock bow, and pushes Darvis towards Duncan. “Now get going before this guy wises up and changes his mind. And… take care of yourself up there. Never know what weird shit you’re gonna see on the surface.”

Darvis nods, swallowing down the strange pain in his chest. If he is truly going to the surface, the odds are that he won’t be seeing Leske again. But at least they’ll both be alive. “Same to you.”

“Hey, you know me. I’m pretty good at laying low.” Leske gives Darvis one last smirk, then slinks out into the streets, eventually disappearing into the shadows of an alleyway. Darvis watches until he vanishes from sight. When he’s finally gone, Darvis turns back to Duncan.

“I guess I’m coming with you.”

Duncan nods, casting a look behind him at the few lingering guards. “We need to be on the way, then. The other Wardens I traveled here with are still on a mission into the Deep Roads, but we may be wise to wait for them on the surface.”

“Wait,” Darvis cuts in, panicked, “I need to go home first. I need to speak to my sister.”

Duncan shakes his head. “We can arrange for a message to be sent, but we should not delay our departure. The Rite of Conscription is not always respected as it should be. It’s best we make ourselves scarce before tensions rise more than they already have.”

The thought of leaving without saying goodbye to Rica hits Darvis like a punch to the gut, but he notices the way the remaining guards are eying him. He doesn’t doubt that if he tried to return home, he would be followed- and perhaps fall victim to an ‘accident’ in the shadows of Dust Town. With much reluctance, he follows in Duncan’s trail.

They’ve almost reached the Orzammar gate when Darvis hears his name being called out. He turns with alarm at first, but his heart leaps when he sees Rica dashing through the street. She crashes through the crowd, long skirts hitched above her knees and face red with exertion, paying no heed to the dirty looks her presence elicits. Before Darvis can say anything, she’s throwing her arms around him and gripping him in a tight hug.

“Leske… told me… what happened,” she pants, trying to catch her breath. “I ran as fast as I could. I had to say goodbye.”

Darvis hugs her back fiercely, screwing his eyes shut so that when he pulls away Rica doesn’t see any moisture in them. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I hate to leave you here-”

“Don’t!” Rica’s eyes are wet, but her expression glows. “”You have to go! I always knew you’d get your chance, and this is it. You’ll finally get to show the world how great you are- the equal of any noble.”

“I’ll stay alive, at any rate,” Darvis allows. “You keep yourself safe, okay?”

Rica wipes at her eyes and laughs. “Don’t you worry about me. I’ll be okay.” she smiles shyly, and self-consciously tucks a wild strand of hair behind her ear. “I… have my patron. It’s real. I spent the whole day with him, and if everything works out, I will be more than taken care of. He’s already promised to move us to a better house. If I can bear him a son, things will only get better.”

Relief and concern flood over Darvis in equal measures. Rica will be okay. If this patron is everything she says he is, she will have every comfort she deserves. But it still feels wrong to leave her here, to leave her fate in the hands of some noble he has never met. Still, he manages to fight back the uncertainty and give Rica a smile. “And you’re happy with him?”

“I am.” Her expression grows determined, and despite the worry that Darvis can't quite manage to chase away, he recognizes the strength in his sister. The Brosca's are a tough family. It's the only reason they've made it this far. Rica knows this just as much as Darvis does. “I can take care of myself, and of mother. And you can go make a name on the surface. You’re better than you realize. Remember that.”

She gives Darvis one last, quick squeeze, before granting Duncan a slightly embarrassed bow and retreating back towards Dust Town. Darvis resists the urge to run after her. She can take care of herself, he assures himself qiuetly. He only wishes she didn’t have to.

At last, Darvis turns back to Duncan, who has been waiting patiently a few feet away. “Um. Shall we continue?”

They do continue, moving through the large hall lined with the towering statues of Paragons. Darvis smirks at them as he passes through. If the tales are correct, he’s going somewhere the ancestors can’t follow, and that suits him just fine.

As the tall gates open to the side of the mountain, Darvis feels uncharacteristically hopeful.

 

* * *

 

 

Marja would trade all the gold in the Orzammar treasury for a fitted suit of armor and a balanced greatsword. To send her to the Deep Roads to die is bad enough. To send her to the Deep Roads to die in nothing but her prison clothes just seems an unnecessary cruelty.

The entire process feels horribly un-ceremonial to Marja. She is an _Aeducan-_ if they must kill her, they could at least do it with some respect. But she had been dragged from her cell just as rudely as she had been dragged into it, and only Harrowmont and a handful of guards were there to witness her exile to the Deep Roads.

A smart move on Bhelen’s part, Marja has to admit. She can’t imagine what he said to their father to convince him not to speak to her, but of course she knows now just how cunning Bhelen can be when necessary. And Marja knows, just as Bhelen surely knows, that if she could have seen her father just once more she could have avoided such a harsh sentence. Instead, all of Marja’s practiced speeches were rendered irrelevant.

Harrowmont had tried to offer her kindness as she left. Just words, of course- Harrowmont had always been a shrewd man at heart, not keen on placing bets that weren’t in his favor. But it was because of him that Marja had any chance at all, so she had held her temper and allowed him to assuage his own conscience through meaningless sentiment.

She had at least been lucky enough to stumble across the body of a would-be adventurer- probably a foolish relic-hunter hoping to find some ruins to loot. It seemed he had found a nest of darkspawn instead, but his loss is Marja’s gain. His armor is tight and his sword has rusted over, but it’s better than nothing.

That’s what Marja keeps reminding herself as she carves her way through the tunnels. Ill-fitting armor and a rusty sword is better than nothing. Being sent to the Deep Roads is better than being executed. Knowing that the Wardens are somewhere in this tunnel is better than being faced with certain death.

Still, she wishes she had her greatsword, especially when her unfamiliar, unbalanced sword swings wide and misses the head of the genlock she’s fighting.

The genlock hisses and lunges, and Marja grits her teeth in irritation as she dives to the ground to dodge. She throws herself against the creature, using her weight to shove it to the ground. At this close a distance, even the unfamiliar weight of the longsword can’t cause her to miss.

Once she’s finished the genlock off, she hurries down the tunnel before the noise can attract any more. As she moves, she hastily checks herself for open wounds. If she allows herself to become contaminated with darkspawn blood, she won’t live long enough to find the Wardens. She fears she may have missed them already; time is hard to gauge in the endless darkness of the Deep Roads. The pains in her stomach tell her it’s been too long since she’s eaten, but this alone is not much help; all she had while stuck in the cells were a few pieces of crust.

It can’t have been too long. It simply can’t. Telling herself that the Wardens are here, just around the next curve, just through the next tunnel, Marja keeps herself moving.  She’s exhausted, and her feet protest with every step in her unarmored, ill-fitting boots, but she can’t stop.

When she first begins to see signs of non-darkspawn travelers, renewed determination invigorates her. After hours of following footprints that she _hopes_ aren’t hurlock, she at last hears voices echo from the road ahead.

“Hello?” she calls out, throwing any sense of caution to the wind. She is _not_ taking the chance of losing these people in the winding tunnels. “Wardens?”

The torches that come into view are the most beautiful sight Marja has ever seen. Her knees wobble with relief as the Wardens come into view, but she somehow finds the strength to remain standing.

The Wardens approach, shock obvious on their faces.  In the back of her mind, Marja can’t help but shudder at the sight she must be. Obviously stolen armor, filthy from the dungeons, hair streaked with dirt and blood. They probably don’t even recognize her as royalty. Still, she offers them a smile, trying to invoke the same charm she once used on Assembly members. “Grey Wardens, I presume? I hear you’re looking for recruits.”

After that, things happen in a blur. Marja answers the many, _many_ questions put forth by the Wardens, doing her best to remain diplomatic and elusive. The Wardens may take criminals and murderers, but she still doesn’t want to give them any doubts regarding her trustworthiness. She tells an abridged version of her story, and when pressed for details she finally allows herself to stumble in exhaustion.

“May we continue this conversation elsewhere?” she asks, and thanks the Ancestors when the Wardens begin to usher her back to their camp on the surface.

 

Despite the exhaustion in her bones, Marja’s mind is working at top speed- until she sees the stars.

They stop her in her tracks, and for a long time all she can do is stare. She’s heard about such things before, of course. The “stars”, the “sky”. Words don’t do any of it justice. The gaping expanse of dark blue stretches out above her, more distant than any cavern ceiling could ever be and filled with innumerable pinpricks of golden light. Marja understands now why there are legends about falling upwards.

A voice breaks her from her reverie. She and the other Wardens are at the exit of a tunnel, a side passage that thankfully bypasses the city and lets out near their camp. The Wardens hurry to find Duncan, whom Marja gathers is their leader and the man who now approaches her.

“Lady Aeducan,” he greets her, and Marja works to keep her expression steady even as the title strikes her heart.

“Just Marja now, I suppose,” she corrects lightly. A bitter taste is left in her mouth, but she bites her tongue and continues. “There has been a shift in the political structure of Orzammar over the past few days.”

“So I’ve heard,” Duncan muses. He studies her with a look Marja knows all too well- the look of somebody weighing their options. “I will not ask about the accuracy of the rumors that pass through the city. Wardens have no place in politics, and anything you may have done will be left behind. If you join, that is.”

“And I do wish to join,” Marja says, perhaps a bit too eagerly. But what else can she do? Everything in this world is strange to her, and she predicts that most of it will not be as harmless as the stars. Left alone, she will die on this mountain just as surely as she would have died in the Deep Roads. And she knows that the Wardens are in no position to turn down recruits. “A Blight is coming, isn’t it?”

“I believe so. We need Wardens, and you would make an excellent one. That you survived on your own in the Deep Roads proves that.” He pauses, and Marja frowns at the hesitation. “But first, I should warn you of something.”

“If it is the danger, I assure you-”

“No. It is the rules of the order. The rules that you, as a Grey Warden, would be required to follow. You must understand that the Grey Wardens leave their old lives behind _completely_. And we take no part in political matters. Once you become a Warden, that is all you may ever be.”

Ah. Marja looks away, her mind spinning. She feels as if Duncan can peer into her very thoughts, although perhaps it would be easy for anyone to draw certain conclusions after the upheaval Orzammar has just witnessed. “Are you afraid I’m going to come marching back here with an army to usurp my brother?”

“Is that what you want?”

_Yes._

“No.” Marja meets Duncan’s gaze, her chin set. “The whole city believes me a murderer. They exiled me. There is nothing left for me here.”

She can’t tell if Duncan completely believes her, and she can’t help but feel a grudging respect for this human. It’s clear that he takes these rules seriously. A pity- unreadable as he is, he would make a talented politician.

“Very well,” he says at last. “I admit, I am glad to have two new recruits from Orzammar.”

A flutter of hope rushes through Marja. “Two? You saved someone else? Is Gorim here?” Perhaps he managed to find the Wardens, perhaps he waited for her, perhaps her only ally has not disappeared-

“Gorim?” Duncan frowns, the name obviously unfamiliar to him, and Marja’s hopes are dashed. She looks down, doing her best to contain her disappointment.

“I suppose not, then. Is there another disgraced noble I haven’t heard about?”

“Not exactly. But there will be time for introductions on our way to Ostagar,” Duncan says. “For now, get some rest. We begin travel at dawn, and it is a long journey down the mountain.” He turns to leave, and Marja reaches out uncertainly to stop him.

“Apologies, but… what is ‘dawn’?”

A good-natured smile flits across Duncan’s face as he answers. “Just get some sleep for now. We’ll be moving in a few hours.”

Marja nods and watches Duncan depart, but it is a long time before she seeks out a tent of her own. Instead, she sits and stares up at the stars.

How many of her ancestors have seen such things? Not many, she believes. Self-respecting, noble-born dwarves don’t visit the surface. Trian certainly would have died before letting himself be brought up to the surface world to look into the sky. Which, Marja numbly supposes, is exactly what happened.

But she’s alive. Everything else may be ashes around her- one brother dead, another turned traitor, and a father who thinks her a liar and a murderer- but she is _alive._ And even if she joins the Wardens and the Shapers purge her name from all records, she is an Aeducan still.

And when she is ready, when Bhelen has grown complacent in the belief that he is safe, she will return to this city and show her brother what it looks like when an Aeducan wages war.


	7. A Shift In Perspective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darvis and Marja attempt to adjust to the surface, and to each other.

The surface, as it turns out, is really fucking weird.

There’s so much about it that’s just not natural. The sky, for instance. Darvis doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to look up without immediately feeling nauseous. It’s all too _much-_ the distance and openness and blue-ness. Looking at it too long causes prickles to run down his neck. Not to mention that apparently things will just… fall out of it from time to time. Things like _snow,_ or _rain,_ or _hail._ He’s not even sure what all of that is, but from what he’s gleaned so far, it’s probably not good.

He wonders what Leske would have to say about all of this. _Stop with the bellyaching, duster. At least we’re not in that cell, waiting for Beraht and Jarvia to feed us to the nugs._ Probably something like that.

The thought helps to lighten the weight of guilt that still sits in Darvis’s stomach. If Leske were here, he’d knock Darvis in the back of the head and call him sun-touched for having doubts about the surface, or for feeling bad about leaving.

And if Leske were here, he’d be laughing himself unconscious over the fact that even on the surface Darvis can’t get away from fucking _nobles._

The woman Duncan introduces on the first morning of their travels is most definitely a noble. She introduces herself simply- _Marja,_ no family names or rattling off of titles- and is dressed in old cloths and cheap armor, but it makes no difference. Darvis doesn’t need names or titles to know a noble when he sees one. It’s in the way they hold themselves, with a strict, upright posture and a nose in the air. Even on the surface, a person can tell just by looking at them that they’re used to getting their way.

Darvis doesn’t know why she’s here. She probably pissed off somebody important- nobles are fickle lot, and quick to take offense. Whatever it was, it must have been severe to send a high-blooded lady running for the surface. The curiosity about her crime sits in the back of Darvis’s mind, but it’s anger and bitterness that wash over him whenever he sees her chatting with Duncan. She’s not supposed to be here- not on the surface, not with the Wardens, not with Darvis.

This was supposed to be a fresh start for him. A way to become more than the mark that’s followed him his entire life. With a noble who knows _exactly_ what that mark means, Darvis doesn’t see how a fresh start is possible anymore.

But time will tell. The Wardens march towards Ostagar now, where from what Darvis gathers some battle will be taking place soon. With luck, the misplaced noble will get herself killed quickly and Darvis won’t have to put up with her any more than he already has.

He can feel her studying him. She does nothing but watch him the first day of the journey. On the second morning of their march, she appears beside him.

“Our introduction the other day was a bit rushed,” she says with a small smile. She has the accent of the nobility, a precise, haughty tone that immediately sets Darvis’s teeth on edge. “I thought perhaps we should get to know each other a bit more. You are, after all, the only other dwarf around now.” She looks at Darvis expectantly, as if their shared dwarfhood should matter at all. As if she doesn’t see the brand on his face.

But Darvis knows better. If their paths had crossed a week ago she would have spit on him sooner than introduce herself.He doesn’t know what she wants now, but he refuses to participate in whatever game this is.

“Our introduction was rushed because I don’t want to talk to you,” he says flatly. The momentary displeasure on her face is immensely satisfying. “And I know you don’t really want to talk to me. What do you _want?”_

Her lips purse, but she regains her composure quickly. “I simply thought we should take a moment to speak before we reach Ostagar. We are both recruits, are we not? It will be easier to work together as allies if-”

 Darvis interrupts her with a derisive snort. “Allies?” He turns to look her in the eyes, knowing that his brand is prominently displayed. “We may both be Wardens, but we are certainly not allies.”

“I think-”

“You think I have to accommodate your wishes? Not here, I don’t.” The words send a rush of adrenaline through Darvis’s blood. Some remnant of self-preservation is telling him to shut his mouth, but he doesn’t have to. Not here. Darvis may still have a brand on his face, but if Duncan is right it doesn’t mean the same thing it once did.

Marja is silent for a moment. Her well-practiced cordiality is gone now, and she regards him with serious, steely-grey eyes. “I see. You don’t wish to be allies. Very well.  But we don't want to be enemies, do we?”

 “Is that a threat?”

“Take it however you wish,” she says with a shrug. “I have no quarrel with you. If you simply wish to stay out of each other’s way, I am content with that.”

“Sounds like a fine fucking idea to me,” Darvis says. After one last look of annoyance in his direction, the woman moves away, off to speak with another Warden. Darvis grins to himself as he watches her go. He could never speak to a noble like this back in Orzammar. Perhaps the surface has some benefits, after all.

 

After days and days of traveling- Darvis thinks they must have walked the entire width of Ferelden- the towering battlements of Ostagar finally appear, looming over the horizon. This, apparently, is where the battle will be taking place. Duncan has spoken little of the upcoming fight. From what Darvis can tell, he’s not the particularly talkative type. But he has said that they will be meeting the other Wardens at Ostagar, and will be cooperating with the king’s troops to push back the darkspawn.

Darvis is more worried about this business with the king than he is about the darkspawn. Kill things? He can do that. But when it comes to thrones and crowns, he would rather keep his head down.

Marja, of course, has the opposite attitude. When at last they reach the gates and are greeted by a group of knights in regal-looking armor, Darvis notices that she has placed herself near the front of the party. Darvis hangs back, just close enough to listen as the groups exchange droning pleasantries.

“And I heard you gathered some new recruits! And from Orzammar, no less!” The human king beams brightly, looking around for any dwarfs. He’s tall, like most humans, and younger-looking than Darvis would have expected. When the king’s gaze lands on him, Darvis gives only a curt nod.

Marja, however, returns his smile easily. “A pleasure to meet you, Your Majesty. Have you ever visited our lovely city?”

“I have, but far too long ago. How fares King Endrin?”

“My father was quite well, last I saw him.”

A choked noise escapes from Darvis’s throat, and he quickly tries to hide with a cough. Nobody seems to notice- the human king is now fully focused on Marja.

Marja _Aeducan._

Darvis doesn’t recognize her- how _could_ he, he’d be killed if he got within fifty feet of the palace, and it’s not like royal parades travel through Dust Town- and the name is just another on a list of important people he doesn’t care about and will never meet. Except he has met her. She’s _here,_ standing with the Wardens and chatting away with the human king as if any of this makes sense.

Darvis isn’t just stuck on the surface with a fucking noble. He’s stuck on the surface with a fucking _princess._

He swears that even from here, he can hear Leske laughing at him.

 

* * *

 

 

Marja is becoming acquainted with King Cailan- because she has manners, unlike _some_ people _-_ when Duncan coughs politely and gives a nod. King Cailan hurriedly straightens and gives Marja an apologetic smile. “We must talk more, my friend, after you have all had the chance to rest.”

“That sounds wonderful,” she says, although in the back of her mind she’s scrambling for a story to tell when he begins asking questions. Ever since she learned the king would be at Ostagar, she’s been planning her approach. She needs to make a good impression on this man. Orzammar is isolationist, but they depend on trade. The support of the Fereldan King could be quite the help when she returned home.

But any support would have to be won. Marja will need a good explanation for why she was exiled. It has occurred to her to share the truth, but that route has its own dangers. If the king thought she were a lying kin-slayer trying to cover up her crimes… well, it just wouldn’t do.

There will time to worry on that later. For now, Marja focuses her attention back on the conversation between the king and Duncan.

“Loghain will want to go over the battle plans before tomorrow,” Cailan is saying to Duncan. His voice grows in excitement. “Truly, Duncan, it is an honor to fight alongside the Wardens. It shall be _glorious.”_

“As you say, my king,” Duncan says, betraying no emotion. “Now if you will excuse us, there is business among the Wardens that must be attended to.” After successfully extricating the group from the conversation, he gives a tired sigh.

Marja chuckles. She’s known men like this King Cailan before- young, charming, eager for battle. At least half of them were likely to vomit at the first sight of a darkspawn. “He’s certainly… excited.”

“He expects a simple battle. He does not believe this is a true Blight.” There is no humor in Duncan’s voice, and Marja’s smile fades.

“But you do?”

“Yes. The Wardens always know. Speaking of which, there are preparations that must be made. You two-“ he motions at Marja and Darvis, who makes a face at their being included together, “-should find Alistair. He will be assisting in the Joining tonight.”

“Joining?” Darvis’s voice is sharp and suspicious.

“The Joining Ritual, where you will officially become a Grey Warden. I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you at this time. You will need to meet with Alistair and the other recruits.”

“Officially? I thought we were Wardens!” Darvis crosses his arms as he speaks, his fingers running across the blade hilts on his belt with nervous energy. Marja doesn’t want to show it, but Duncan’s words have alarmed her, as well.

“There is more to being a Grey Warden than simply calling yourself one.” Duncan looks out across the camp. “There are more meetings I must attend. I will join you and the other recruits later, and we will discuss what must be done. Until then, speak with Alistair and take what time you have to rest.”

And just like that, Duncan is gone. Marja frowns, wondering what he could have meant-

“So.” Darvis’s voice is directed at Marja now, which takes her by surprise; he made it very clear earlier in the journey that he wanted nothing to do with her.

Perhaps she could have approached him better. The lines of Caste are hard to cross, and Marja had never actually spoken to a Casteless before. They’re simply not seen within the Diamond Quarter, other than the “noble-hunters” some of the nobles- including Bhelen- take to their bedchambers.

But now, this Darvis fellow is looking right at her. His face is partially obscured by thick, dark brown hair that falls even longer than Marja’s, but the hostility in his eyes is clear enough. “What the blazes did you _do?”_

Marja raises an eyebrow in response, “Excuse me?”

“You’re the princess.”

Ah. Marja had been wondering if he recognized her at first. Now she wonders how much of the story he’s heard; he left the city before she did, but news travels fast. Especially scandals. “I was, yes.” He waits for her to elaborate, but she only gives him a small smile.

“So what did you do? The princess doesn’t just _decide_ to join the Wardens.”

So he doesn’t know. Marja wonders if he would believe her. “My brother…” the words stop in her throat, and she closes her eyes for a moment to steel herself. Getting into the truth, here and now, is a bad idea. Her own father thought her a liar and a murderer; what reason would this man have to think any different? “There was a bit of a familial disagreement. I came out on the losing end. Technically, I’m not a princess anymore.”

Darvis hasn’t stopped eying her with suspicion. “Seems extreme for a… disagreement.”

“Well, I’m sure you know how nobility can be when it comes to honor and such. Things like interfering with Provings, for example, can really get a rise out of people.”

Darvis blinks in surprise, and Marja smirks. She’d suspected, but now she knows. “So that _was_ you, then. I have to say, I’m impressed. If you really did blow away the entire Warrior Caste, it’s no wonder Duncan recruited you.” She’s laying it on a little thick, but a bit of flattery is far from the greatest sacrifice she’s made in the name of diplomacy.

But far from being appeased, Darvis’s eyes narrow. “Your guards didn’t seem very impressed when they came for my head.”

“Yes, guards can be funny like that.” Darivs doesn’t respond, and Marja can’t help but feel out of her depth. When it comes to charming politicians and royalty, Marja is an expert. She’s never had to attempt to get into the good grace of a Casteless man determined to hate her. She decides to make one last attempt. “Look, it’s clear we’re going to be thrown together in this Joining thing. Surely we can try and cooperate. You don’t have to like me. I just want to be able to work together.”

Darvis stares at her for a moment as if she’s lost her mind, then chuckles and shakes his head. He dips low into an exaggerated bow, the tips of his long braided beard nearly brushing the snow-covered ground. “Well, if the high and mighty _princess_ wishes it, I’m sure it’s going to happen.”

Marja’s mouth twitches into a frown, and she reminds herself to take a deep breath. She knows when she’s being made fun of, and she refuses to rise to the bait. “I’m sure it will,” she replies in an even voice, then turns and walks away, head held high even as the anger threatens to burst out of her.

If the world were right, she would be in command of entire troops that respected her. She would be on the cusp of the throne. Instead she’s on her own in a human camp being mocked by a common criminal.

 _It’s nothing you can’t handle,_ she reminds herself. _You dealt with Trian for years. This can’t be worse than that._

The words are true, but they ring hollow all the same. Even when dealing with Trian, Marja had Gorim by her side. She had- or at least thought she had- Bhelen. But up here, the only person Marja even remotely trusts is Duncan, and even he is inscrutable at the best of times.

_But you’re alive. You can handle this._

The mantra eventually calms her, and Marja is able to take in some of her surroundings. The sprawling camp is filled with soldiers of all kinds, and tents have been arranged in small clusters. Marja has no idea where this ‘Alistair’ is, but if he’s another Warden he shouldn’t be too hard to find.

The most vexing thing about Ostagar is that even here, the surface world still has the nerve to be beautiful. Marja can’t help but be in awe of so many things- the sky, the trees, the snow. Oh, the _snow._ Marja has been entranced by it for days, ever since she first saw the sun rise over the frozen peaks of the Frostback Mountains. Even here, in the midst of the drudgery of a war camp, it covers the trees and tents in a soft, glittering blanket of white.

It’s different from Orzamaar, that much is certain. Just like everything else.


	8. A Warden And A Witch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Acquaintances are made. Whether they are to be trusted is another question.

_Find Alistair,_ Duncan had said, and Marja intends to do just that. But first there are other important matters that must be taken care of.

She studies the rack of weapons laid out before her for a long moment as the human quartermaster looks on impatiently. “You can’t afford _that,”_ he says as she reaches for a fine-looking sword, and Marja purses her lips. The armor she’d worn just last week was worth more than all of this equipment put together. Now she’s being forced to make do with not just human craftsmanship, but _shoddy_ human craftmanship _._

At least she was able to trade in the sword she took from the Deep Roads. She feels a twinge of guilt imagining it in the quartermaster’s hands. She would prefer to return it to Orzammar, to be buried with its owner in a proper funeral. It deserves better than to be pawned off here, so far from the Stone. But there’s nothing to be done about it now.

Marja moves down the weapons rack, waiting for something to catch her eye. There are plenty of swords, but none of the caliber she is accustomed to. She passes over shields (she never liked those anyway, only wore them for ceremonies) and mauls (Trian’s favorite, he always loved having the largest weapon on the field).

At last, she settles on a hefty, double-edged battleaxe. Such a thing isn’t her usual weapon of choice, but her usual way of things hasn’t exactly been serving her well as of late. Besides, the weight of it feels right as she holds it in front of her. “I suppose I’ll take this one, then.”

The quartermaster snorts derisively. “You sure you can handle that? It’s a big weapon for a tiny thing like you.”

Without a word, Marja gives the axe an experimental swing upward. It arcs through the air and back down, and with a twist of her arm Marja brings the weapon to a hovering halt a mere inches from the man’s knees. He yelps and staggers back, and Marja smiles brightly. “Why, yes. I believe I can.”

With her new weapon strapped to her back, Marja feels a bit more cheerful as she picks her way through the Ostagar camp. She focuses on the groups of armored humans, hoping to once again catch sight of King Cailan. The man himself is nowhere to be seen, but Marja gives his guards a charming smile and introduces herself as a Warden, and soon enough they’re passing on some interesting pieces of gossip.

It seems the king’s high regard for the Wardens is well-known. Just as well-known is the fact that this regard is not shared by Teyrn Loghain, the king’s foremost advisor.

“And where is this Teyrn?,” Marja asks, but the guard shakes his head.

“He’s preparing for the upcoming battle. He…” the guard casts a furtive glance behind him before continuing in a hushed tone. “He and the king have been arguing. Personally, I think Loghain is the reason we’ve been doing as well as we have. He knows what he’s doing. But the king doesn’t always listen to him, and Loghain’s been in a sour mood for days.”

The nearby tent flap opens noisily, and the guard Marja is chatting with springs to attention as a towering, dark-haired man lumbers by. Judging by the expensive state of his armor and the hostile expression he wears, Marja supposes that this must be the formidable Teyrn Loghain. She smiles and nods her head respectfully as he passes, but he only gives her a dark look.

“He must know you’re with the Wardens,” the guard comments after Loghain has passed.

“Of course he does,” Marja mutters. The king’s initial welcoming response to the Wardens had left her hopeful, but she should have known that politics could never be that simple. Grudges and rivalries are what landed her here in the first place; she’ll need to make an effort to get on this teyrn’s good side if she wishes to avoid more of the same while she’s with the Wardens. And speaking of the Wardens…

“Do you have any idea where a fellow named Alistair is?” she asks the guard.

He motions further down the camp. “Another Warden? One of the mages came through a while ago looking for him. Went storming off that way.”

Marja frowns. An angry mage doesn’t sound good. Just how many people here, she wonders, have a problem with the Grey Wardens?

 

“You’re not another mage, are you?” The man- Alistair, Marja presumes- looks down at her with a tired smile. He’s outfitted in Grey Warden armor, but other than that is not what Marja expected. He’s young, young enough to be Duncan’s son, and even as he readies himself for another verbal assault there’s a glint of amusement in his eyes.

His question catches Marja off guard. She raises an eyebrow. “I’m a dwarf.” Surely the surfacers know that dwarves can’t perform magic?

Alistair only shrugs. “Hey, you never know. These mages can be sneaky. And they don’t like me much. Not that I can blame them, I suppose. I'm pretty sure the Revered Mother is using me as a messenger specifically to insult them."

"Your presence is an insult, then?" Marja asks, and Alistair shrugs somewhat self-consciously.

"Oh, I went through Templar training. It was long ago, and it shouldn't matter anymore. But still. You can imagine how the Circle feels about that.”

Marja can’t imagine, in fact. She wracks her brain for what she’s learned about Templars- something about working with mages and the Circle, but there’s obviously more to it than that.

Before she can ask for clarification, Alistair rubs his chin and nods in recognition. “No, wait, I know who you are- you’re one of the new recruits. Duncan told me to expect you. You came straight from Orzammar, didn’t you?”

“We did. And apparently we need to complete some sort of Joining?”

“Ah. Yes.  Duncan will explain the details once we’re all together, but we’ll be going into the Korcari Wilds. Nothing too dangerous out there, really, just rabid wildlife and darkspawn.” He grins, and Marja thinks he might be making another joke.

“I have plenty of experience with darkspawn from the Deep Roads, so that doesn’t sound too difficult,” she replies. At least they’ll be in the open; Marja already prefers the openness of the sky above her to the suffocation of the Deep Roads tunnels she’d been exiled to. There’s no possible way the Wilds can be worse than _that._

 

After an hour in the thick woods, Marja still doesn’t think the Wilds are worse than the Deep Road tunnels, but she  _is_ starting to think that their group may be lost. Alistair leads them through twisting paths, his Warden senses supposedly pointing him to the darkspawn they seek.

As they walk, she has little time to pause and appreciate the new landscape, although she wishes she could. Snow still covers the ground in some places, but it’s warmer than it was in the mountains, and every now and then stubborn flowers peek up from beneath the white powder.  Marja has seen flowers, of course, but they were dry, wilted things, brought to the palace by traveling merchants. These are soft, alive, and in colors so bright Marja can scarcely believe it. Alistair claims some of them can be used for healing, and Marja grabs a few as they walk and tucks them into her bag. She’ll study them later, but for now she needs to focus on this mission.

Which would be easier if she knew _why_ they were on this mission.

To collect darkspawn blood is the reason Duncan gave, but Marja can’t imagine why they would possibly need something like that. The rest of the mission makes sense- find an old Warden fort, retrieve treaties drawn up years ago between the Wardens and their allies- but darkspawn blood? Marja has been turning over different possibilities in her mind as they search, but she can’t think of any sensible reason for the task.

All she knows is that they need it for the Joining Ritual, and that fact makes Marja uneasy. She’s reminded of the Silent Sisters of Orzammar, and how as a child she’d briefly wanted to join their ranks. She’d been enamored with the idea of the legion of warrior woman. Then Trian had informed her of their practice of cutting out their own tongues, and with sword in hand had offered to remove hers for her. Marja had lost her interest after that.

 _Whatever this Joining is,_ Marja thinks, _it can’t be worse than removing a tongue. Especially if the other recruits are expected to do it._

To say the other recruits have left her unimpressed is an understatement. In addition to Marja, the Wardens have recruited Jory, who jumps with fright at the very idea of darkspawn, and Daveth, a petty criminal who argues like a child. And of course there’s Darvis, who still refuses to have a civilized conversation. If these are considered candidates for the Wardens, then surely Marja herself is more than qualified for whatever this Joining entails.

“I can sense some of the darkspawn up ahead. When you collect the blood, try not to touch it,” Alistair calls from the head of the group. Marja looks in the direction he indicates and sure enough, a huddled group of dark figures is just barely visible in the distance.

“Are there any more around us?” Marja asks, studying their position.

“Not that I can tell,” Alistair responds.

“Good. We can move around the ridge and hit them from behind.” Marja cuts a glance at Alistair as she says this, wondering if she’s breaking some chain of command by giving orders, but he doesn’t seem to notice. In fact, he seems ready to follow her plan.

“So now you’re the one in charge?”

Marja shoots an icy glare at Darvis. It seems he’s ready to take offense on Alistair’s behalf. “I’m merely offering a plan of attack,” she says tersely. “I have experience with these creatures, and I know how to deal with them.”

“Maybe the actual _Warden_ has a better idea on how to deal with them.”

Alistair looks immensely uncomfortable as he realizes he’s been dragged into the argument. “Umm… that sounds fine, really. Let’s not waste time arguing- we need to find the old Warden outpost after we get the blood, and we need to do that before it gets dark.”

Marja smiles and lifts her head, pointedly ignoring the glare Darvis continues to shoot her way. “I agree.”

The darkspawn are gathered in a small group- a handful of hurlocks and one genlock. Darvis and Daveth, the quietest of the group, edge forward ahead of the warriors to catch the creatures by surprise.

Darvis moves in first, rushing in close to bury one knife in the back of a hurlock’s knees and the other in its neck as it falls to the ground. The other creatures turn at the noise, but not quickly enough to launch a proper defense.

Darvis frees his knife and rolls to the side as one of the creatures rushes at him. Before he can retaliate, Marja is in front of him. She heaves her battleaxe high, swinging it in an arc just in time to catch a hurlock in the face and cleave its head neatly in two. Marja grins grimly as she pulls the axe into another swing to push back another incoming hurlock. She decides in that moment that she’s rather happy with her new weapon.

Between the five fighters, the darkspawn are quickly disposed. Once they’re all down, Marja pulls the small glass vial from her bag and begins the messy work of gathering the darkspawn blood. The blood is black and congealing quickly into a thick slime. She takes great care not to touch it as she gathers it into the vial.

“Is this enough for… whatever we need this shit for?” Beside Marja, Darvis holds his vial up for Alistair’s inspection. Alistair glances at the vial and gives a quick nod. Marja can’t help but notice the way his eyes dart away just a bit too quickly. Something about this process makes the human uncomfortable, that much is clear. And that makes Marja nervous.

For the time being, there’s nothing she can do about it, so she turns to continue down the path. Darvis, however, remains in place and begins to runs his hands over the creature’s armor.

“ _What_ are you doing?” Marja asks, distaste evident in her voice.

Darvis glances up and raises an eyebrow, motioning to the body at his feet. ”Looting.” He tugs at the thing’s holster until he manages to release a knife, which he then slides into his own belt.

Marja wrinkles her nose as Darvis continues to search the mangled corpse. To steal from a body for the sake of survival is one thing, but this just feels _vulgar._ “We don’t have time for this,” she snaps. “And you already have at least four knives.”

“You can never have too many knives, princess.”

Marja decides not to argue further and simply turns away, back to Alistair. “We have the blood. Now where are these treaties supposed to be?”

 

* * *

 

Darvis can’t help but wonder if this mysterious Joining is just a bizarre hazing ritual.

If it is, he’s lived through worse. Beraht had his own ways of testing his people’s loyalty, and Darvis would much rather hunt down hurlocks than fellow Carta members who had been skimming a little too much off the top of their profits.

Still. There’s something about collecting the blood that sets his nerves on edge.

Other than the freaky blood mysteries, Darvis likes this other Warden well enough. Alistair is tall and broad, even moreso than the other humans, but jokes and chatters with an ease that Duncan lacks. And yet he’s still tight-lipped about the reasons behind the blood collection. With nothing else to go on, Darvis hopes it’s simply meant to prove they can kill darkspawn on their own and that they’ll be getting rid of the stuff as soon as they can.

 _Not with your luck, duster,_ a voice says in the back of his mind. Darvis tries to ignore it.

The other recruits are human as well. There’s Daveth, whose story is similar to Darvis’s- a thief who got caught and was rescued from punishment by the Warden’s Rite of Conscription. He seems pleased with his change of fate, and between his snarky jokes and nonchalant attitude Darvis thinks he and Leske would get along. And then there’s Ser Jory, the only recruit who joined of his own will and who now seems to be regretting that decision _very_ much.

The noise of snapping branches jolts Darvis from his thoughts. Before he can locate the source of the noise, a large black _thing_ shoots out from a nearby bush and launches itself into the sky, emitting a raspy shriek as it rises. Darvis jumps in surprise, his hand reaching automatically for a dagger even as he realizes there is no threat.

“I hate those fucking things,” he mutters darkly to himself.

“The crows?” Alistair asks. “They’re not so bad. They always show up around battle sites, but they’re just scavengers. I’d rather have them than the darkspawn, at any rate.” Darvis fall into step next to the Warden, keeping a wary eye on the sky and tree branches overhead.

 “Scavenger or not, I don’t trust anything that can fly,” Darvis says drily. “There’s just something wrong about that. At least the darkspawn stay on the sodding ground.”

Alistair chuckles, and gives Darvis a curious look. “Have you fought many before? Darkspawn, I mean. Not crows, obviously.”

Darvis shakes his head. “No, fighting the guardsmen kept me busy enough.”

“Ah. I see. I didn’t realize you had such a… colorful background.” Alistair shifts awkwardly, as if suddenly worried he’s said something wrong.

The thought almost makes Darvis laugh. “That’s probably the nicest way you could describe my background.”

Alistair nods, a look of relief crossing his face. They walk in silence for a moment, until Alistair clears his throat. “So, uh… not to pry, but how do you know Marja? I was under the impression you hadn’t met before being recruited, but you two seem to have some… issues.”

Darvis snorts. “I don’t have to know her to know what she’s like.”

Alistair looks confused at this, and Darvis realizes that this human has no context for the reasons a dwarf with a brand on his face might take issue with anyone from nobility. He may not even know that the mark on Darvis’s face _has_ a meaning. A fleeting shiver of panic seizes Darvis as he wonders if he should explain the weight of his caste- or lack of it, rather- to Alistair.

Thankfully, he doesn’t have to. Before Darvis can formulate an answer, crumbling ruins begin to appear from amidst the trees.

An old stone arch, so overgrown with moss that it’s hard to distinguish from the surrounding forest, marks the entrance to what must have once been a small fortress. It’s not a promising sight. The odds of documents surviving out here, even if locked away, seem slim. The forefront building doesn’t even have a roof anymore. It’s fallen away, taking one of the walls with it.

“This seems hopeless,” Darvis says, peering through the remains of the wall into the room within. Not much is visible; the floor is covered in chunks of stones and invading vines.

Marja pushes her way to the front of the group, studying the ruins with a critical eye. “We still need to at least make an _attempt_ to find the treaties.”

“You’re welcome to begin digging, princess,” Darvis snaps back as he scans the darkness. He expects a retort from the noble, but the voice that cuts through the ruins is one he’s never heard.

“Well, well. What have we here?”

Startled, Darvis turns on his heel, reaching for his daggers. At the other end of the ruins, standing at the end of a set of old stone steps, is a tall, dark-haired human woman. She approaches them slowly, observing each of them in turn, but gives no sign of hostility. Her eyes finally fix on Darvis, who still stands in the opening of the old fortress, hands on his weapons.

“Are you a vulture, I wonder? A scavenger poking amidst a corpse whose bones were long since cleaned? Or merely an intruder, come into these darkspawn-filled Wilds of mine in search of easy prey? What say you, hmm? Scavenger or intruder?”

For a moment, Darvis can’t find his voice. This woman is strange, and not only because she’s out here in the forest by herself. Everything about her seems a bit… different. She certainly doesn’t speak like the other humans, and her attire doesn’t match that of the women at the Ostagar camp. She wears a long skirt made of some sort of dark leather, and her top is a twisting purple material decorated with stones and feathers. But despite her strange appearance and challenging words, she makes no move to attack.

Her eyes are still locked on Darvis, and hesitantly, he steps forward. “We’re with the Grey Wardens. Who are you?”

“You are the intruder here, not I.” She moves closer, her voice rising. “I have watched you for some time. _Where do they come from,_ I wondered. _Why are they here?_ And now you disturb ashes none have touched for so long. Why is that?”

 _Watching us?_ Darvis thinks. True, his senses are confused by the woods, but he had been certain they were alone. Before he can question the woman, Alistair steps speaks up. “Don’t answer her. She looks Chasind, and that means others may be nearby.”

The woman remains unimpressed, a mocking smile forming on her lips. “You fear barbarians will swoop down upon you?”

Alistair frowns and mutters, “Yes, swooping is bad.”

“She’s a Witch of the Wilds, she is!” Daveth shouts, a bit of hysteria creeping into his voice. “She’ll turn us into toads!” Daveth certainly looks frightened by the notion, although Darvis has no idea what the man is talking about.

 “Enough!” The exclamation comes from Marja, who shoots Daveth a stern glare before turning her attention to the woman. “We’re not here to fight. We’re here to retrieve treaties that are of great importance to the Grey Wardens. Once we find them, we will be on our way.”

The woman considers this for a moment. “What you seek is here no longer.”

 “Here no longer?” Alistair asks. “You stole them, didn’t you? You’re some kind of… sneaky… witch-thief!”

“How very eloquent,” she replies flatly. “How does one steal from dead men? In any case, it was not I who took them. ‘Twas my mother, in fact. If you wish, I will take you to her. ‘Tis not far from here, and you may ask her for your papers, if you like.”

Alistair shifts uneasily and looks at the other Wardens. “We should get the treaties, but I dislike this. It’s too convenient.”

“Well, we’re not finding anything here. Let’s just go see if she’s telling the truth,” Darvis says impatiently.

“You trust her?” Marja asks, voice tinged with disbelief.

Darvis merely gives her a noncommittal shrug. “Not like we have much choice, if these papers are so damned important.”

The woman, who has been waiting silently through their discussion, smiles at this. “Finally, some sense. Come with me, then.” Without another word, she sets off into the trees. The Wardens are left with little choice but to follow.

“You never did answer my question,” Darvis says as he picks through the bushes after the woman. “Who are you?”

She looks back at him, and he notices for the first time that her eyes are a startling shade of gold. In the shadows of the forest, they almost seem to carry a light of their own. “You may call me Morrigan, if you wish.”


	9. To Be A Warden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With blood and treaties collected, the recruits finally learn the secrets of the Joining.

Marja does not trust the mysterious woman who appeared out of the woods, and she does not like the fact that they’re following her deeper into the forest. Judging by the reactions from the humans in the group, she’s not the only one suspicious of this woman. Unfortunately, they don’t have any other option.

Morrigan leads them to an old, twisted hut hidden away in the trees, a single trail of smoke curling from its long chimney. A woman stands in the doorway, ready and waiting as if she had been expecting visitors. She’s old, with gray tangled hair and leathery skin, and she watches them with an unreadable expression.

Morrigan gestures towards her. “Allow me to introduce my mother. Flemeth.”

Jory takes a sharp, frightened breath at the sound of the name, but before he can say anything Morrigan is already calling out to the woman.

“Mother, I’ve brought the Grey Wardens-”

“I see them, girl,” Flemeth cuts her off. Her voice reminds Marja of rough, unsanded stone. She shifts uneasily as the woman observes the group before her. “Hmm. Much as I expected.”

“We’re supposed to believe you were expecting us?” Alistair grumbles, clearly unhappy with the situation they’ve found themselves in. Morrigan flashes him a look of annoyance, but her mother doesn’t seem affected.

“You are required to do nothing, least of all believe.” Flemeth grins. “Shut one’s eyes tight or open one’s arms wide… either way, one’s a fool!”

“She’s a witch, I tell you,” Daveth whispers, and although Marja doesn’t exactly know what a _witch of the wilds_ is, she thinks he’s right to be wary.

“If she’s really a witch, do you want to make her mad?” Jory responds, and this earns a laugh from the woman.

“Now, there’s a smart lad! Sadly irrelevant, but it is not I who decides such things.” Her eyes fix on Marja and Darvis. “I know what these humans believe. What of the dwarves?”

Marja frowns at being lumped together with the unpleasant rogue, but she shrugs it off and focuses on the woman before her. “I’m not quite certain what to believe about you,” she says slowly.

She can practically feel Darvis rolling his eyes. “So far, _I_ believe you’re crazy,” he says. “Probably dangerous, too.” Marja shoots him a warning look, but Darvis ignores her. His eyes are on Morrigan and her mother. “They say you’re a Witch of the Wilds.”

Flemeth laughs again. “Witch of the Wilds? Morrigan must have told you that. She fancies such tales, though she would never admit it. Oh, how she dances under the moon!”

“They did not come here to listen to your ramblings, Mother,” Morrigan says, a faint flush rising to her cheeks.

Her words are answered with a sigh. “True. They came for their treaties.” She pulls a thick roll of papers from her robes. Before Marja has a chance to ask how this woman knew they would be in search of the treaties, she’s handing them over to Alistair. “Your precious seal wore off long ago. I have protected them.”

“You…protected them?” Alistair sounds as surprised as Marja feels, but Flemeth takes it in stride.

“And why not? Take them to your Grey Wardens and tell them this Blight’s threat is greater than they realize!”

“What do you mean?” Marja asks sharply.

Flemeth tilts her head and grins wider. “Either the threat is greater or they realize less. Now, you have what you came for!” She nods curtly, the dismissal clear. “Morrigan, see to your guests.”

Morrigan sighs, obviously unamused by her mother’s behavior. “Of course. Come, I will lead you back the camp.” Marja is more than happy to leave this strange meeting, but even as they move away, the uneasy feeling doesn’t fade. Flemeth’s hut slowly fades from view, but her laughter still seems to ring in Marja’s ears.

 

Night is setting in as the group returns to Ostagar once more. They’re waved inside by the guards and greeted immediately by Duncan, who takes the treaties and flips through them with relief.

“These will be of much aid to us,” he says, nodding to himself. “And I trust you were successful in your other task as well?”

“We were,” Marja answers. “Although we still don’t understand the purpose of it.” Duncan’s eyes flash to her face, and for a brief moment Marja thinks she can read some emotion in the stoic man. It’s not irritation, or apprehension, or anything else Marja is accustomed to receiving in response to her questions; it’s concern.

“You will find out soon enough. I must go and finish the preparation for the Joining Ritual. We will meet for the ritual in an hour’s time, and your questions will be answered.” With that, Duncan turns and leaves the recruits in the cold night.

“The more I hear about this ritual, the less I like it,” Jory murmurs as they watch Duncan leave.

“Are you blubbering _again?”_ Daveth snaps, shooting the knight a venomous glare. The tension has only made both humans more irritable through the day. Now they’re both on edge, eyeing each other with misdirected suspicion. In the meantime, Darvis, Marja notes, has somehow managed to slip away unseen, yet again.

“Why all these damned tests?” Jory demands. “Have I not earned my place?”

“Oh, I’m sure this is all for the sake of annoying _you,”_ Daveth says curtly.

Marja shoots a glance at Alistair, but he gives no sign of intending to step in. She bites back a sigh. If left to their own devices, these fools will start brawling right in the middle of camp. “Enough,” she says firmly, and they both look at her in surprise. As if they forgot she was even there. Marja allows a hint of irritation to creep into her tone as she continues, “Arguing changes nothing. We’re all here. We’re all about to become Wardens together. There will be plenty of time for you two to whine at each other later. For now, we should all get some rest before the Joining.”

The men deflate and part ways without another word, and Alistair gives Marja a sheepish, relieved look. “Joining is always stressful for recruits, I suppose. I… should go help Duncan, he-”

“What aren’t you telling us?”

Alistair’s face is far easier to read than Duncan’s. The guilt that flashes through his expression may as well be written in ink on his forehead. Marja’s eyes narrow. “What will happen to us tonight?”

Silence hangs heavy in the air as Alistair opens his mouth wordlessly, then closes it again. At last he says, “You’ll become a Grey Warden, I hope. I’m sorry, I really can’t say anything more.” And then he, too, turns and retreats into the camp.

 

“ _Hey.”_

Darvis stops in his tracks and turns to face Marja with his signature scowl. It’s what made him easy to track him down; she just asked the humans if they’d seen a grumpy-looking dwarf pass by. Before he can say anything, Marja holds up a hand. “You don’t want to talk to me. Fine. Just tell me- do you know _anything_ about the how this Joining works?”

Darvis eyes her warily. “What makes you think I know anything you don’t?”

“Just covering my bases.” It’s the truth- Daveth and Jory are as clueless as she is, as are all the other humans in the camp. But Darvis has already proven adept at skulking around. If anyone could have been spying on the other Wardens, it would be him. “Nobody else knows and I can’t get Alistair to talk. Has Duncan or any of the other Wardens said _anything_ at all about it?”

For a moment Marja thinks Darvis is just going to insult her and stalk away again, but after a pause he crosses his arms and a pensive look crosses his face. “No. And I’ll admit, I don’t like it either. But there’s no backing out now, is there?”

“I’m not trying to back out,” Marja answers. “I’d just like to know what I’m getting myself into.”

“Well, I don’t have answers for you.” Darvis sighs, and Marja realizes that although he’s trying not to show it, the lack of knowledge is just as frustrating for him. He looks as if he’s about to say something else, but before he can a human rushes up to them.

“Excuse me! The guards said a group with some dwarves entered the Wilds today. Was that you?”

 _Are there really no other dwarves in this camp?_ Marja wonders, but she all she says is, “Yes, that was us.”

The man clasps his hands together and gives her a hopeful look. “Did you happen to gather any medicine while you were out? Flowers, with white petals?”

“I don’t know about medicine, but…” Marja rifles through her bag until she finds a plant fitting the description. “Do you mean these?”

“Yes! Wonderful! May I purchase some? It’s for a noble cause- one of the war hounds was poisoned by the darkspawn, and I need this plant to cure him-”

“A hound?” Darvis interrupts, looking perplexed.

“Like a nug with fur,” Marja offers. “And of course I’ll help.” She hands the plant over and waves away the man’s money. “Please, no- this seems a worthy cause, and it will do you more good than it will me.” She hears Darvis make a noise of disbelief and pointedly ignores it.

The man doesn’t seem to notice at all. He seems overjoyed simply to be holding the plant. “Thank you!” He turns, then pauses and looks back at the two dwarves. “And if it’s not too much to ask, I do have one other favor to ask…”

 

* * *

 

The monster in front of Darvis is most certainly _not_ a nug with fur.

The dog stands nearly as tall as Darvis himself, with claws and teeth and a predatory look. It gives a low warning growl as Darvis approaches with muzzle in hand. Still, he can sense Marja and the kennelmaster watching him, so he grits his teeth and doesn’t back down.

 _You’re being paid for this, duster,_ he reminds himself. Unlike some, he isn’t dull enough to not leap at a chance to earn some easy money. He just hopes he’s right about the ‘easy’ part.

“Go on,” the kennelmaster encourages from his secure spot behind the fence. “Just slip the muzzle on. You’ll be fine.”

The dog just stares at him with distrustful eyes. “Uh…easy there,” Darivs says uncertainly. He edges forward, and it bares its teeth- its very large, sharp teeth- and growls again.

 _This is bullshit,_ Darvis decides. He’s not about to be bullied by this weird surface beast. “Look,” he hisses under his breath to the dog, “either I’m going to put this thing on you so you can take your medicine, or you’re going to kill me and get sick, and then we’ll both be dead. What do you want to do?” He feels ridiculous, but the beast seems to consider his point. After a moment, it lets out a low whine and sits, its previous wariness replaced with a sense of resignation.

“I can’t believe that worked,” Darvis mutters to himself. He quickly fits the muzzle onto the dog and exits the enclosure, while the kennelmaster beams.

“Well done! I can treat the dog properly now- poor fellow.”

“Not bad,” Marja comments, and Darvis can’t tell if she’s being serious or sarcastic. He makes a rude hand gesture, just to be safe, but there isn’t much venom behind it. He’s more focused on the important matter at hand.

“The payment?” he prompts the kennelmaster.

“Of course!” The man rummages through the coinpurse at his waist and hands a few silver over to Darvis before nodding and turning back to his work. Darvis clutches the small sum and eyes the man’s purse, his fingers twitching at the thought of how easy a target it is. The princess is chatting now with the kennelmaster, neither of them paying him much mind. A simple bump is all it would take, perhaps as he leans over for another look at the dog.

Before he’s consciously made the decision he’s leaning forward, moving into position, and is only interrupted by a voice calling out for him.

“There you are.” Duncan has appeared out of nowhere, and Darvis jumps back, trying not to look suspicious. Duncan eyes him disapprovingly anyway. “Come. It is time for the recruits to gather for the Joining ritual.”

Duncan leads Marja and Darvis to the far end of camp, where Alistair tends a secluded campfire. Daveth and Jory are hanging nearby, waiting anxiously, and Duncan motions for Marja to join them. Darvis, however, he holds back.

“We will join the rest of you in a moment,” Duncan says, and although Marja obviously has questions, she does as he says. From the look she gives him before walking away, Darvis knows she’ll be interrogating him again later. Once Marja is out of earshot, Duncan turns to Darvis. “I know of your talent with… sleight of hand.”

 _Shit._ “Whoa, I didn't actually steal any-”

 “It is a good talent to have.” Duncan’s words catch Darvis by surprise, and the protestations of innocence he had been forming die in his throat. “Grey Wardens use a diverse range of skills and tools to accomplish their mission.”

Darvis waits for the catch, expecting this to be some sort of joke. But Duncan doesn’t take back the words, and honestly he doesn’t seem the _joking_ type. “Oh. Huh. So the Wardens are all right with me… finding a few things, every now and then?”

Duncan rubs his forehead. “So long as it aids in _accomplishing the missions._ And do keep in mind these skills must be practiced with caution. The law is very hard on thieves.”

“Believe me, I’m aware of that.”

“And your standing as a Warden will not always help you.”

“Help?” Darvis shrugs. “You only need help if you get caught.”

His wit earns no reaction. “I know that you have done what you’ve need to in order to survive. It’s why I recruited you. The instinct to survive will, I hope, make you into a great Warden. And as a Warden you must act in the best interests of the order. This includes not risking yourself on something as trivial as a handful of silver.”

“I wouldn’t call that trivial. If it were copper, maybe. But silver…”

“Brosca,” Duncan cuts in, with a look that says _I already let you off the hook once, don’t test my fucking patience._ “All I ask is that you remember that after tonight, all of your past is left behind. Whatever you were before- whatever crimes you may have committed- you will become a Warden, and you must be dedicated to serving a higher purpose. At times, that may mean we will need skills that are considered less than scrupulous. And at other times it will mean that you need to show restraint.”

Darvis shifts under Duncan’s weighty gaze. He doesn’t know about all this ‘higher purpose’ shit, but so far the Wardens still treat him better than the Carta. He can cooperate if he has to. “Fine.”

Duncan nods. “Thank you. And while we’re on the subject, I should also remind you that _all_ Wardens leave their past behind. What another Warden was before should not be held against them.” Darvis is confused by this shift in subject until Duncan looks pointedly to where Marja is standing by the fire. “You needn’t like each other, but you should be able to work together.”

Darvis narrows his eyes. Restraint is one thing, but asking Darvis to smile and play nice with the high and mighty Lady Aeducan? This human may have visited Orzammar, but he doesn’t _know._ He hasn’t had to watch the nobles sit pretty on their diamond thrones as they spit on people like Leske and Rica who have to fight and claw to live another day.

When he gets no response, Duncan sighs. “Think on what I’ve said. Perhaps we will speak on this again. but first, we must see tonight brings. It is time for the Joining.”

 

Night falls as Duncan begins the ceremony. Before him stands a stone altar holding a large, silver goblet containing some liquid not fully discernible in the dim light of the nearby fire. Darvis and the other recruits are gathered in front of the altar as Alistair stands to the side, watching with apprehension as Duncan begins to speak.

“We Grey Wardens pay a heavy price to become what we are. Fate may decree that you pay your price now rather than later.” He pauses. “You would not have been chosen, however, if I did not think you had a chance to survive.”

 _A chance to survive?_ The realization strikes Darvis like an iron hammer, and yet it makes sense. The strange tasks, the unanswered questions, the blood and the ritual and all of the cryptic warnings…

Becoming Wardens might kill them.

Darvis glances at the other recruits- Marja and Daveth are watching Duncan with stoic, unreadable expressions, but Jory is white as a sheet. Solemnly, Duncan lifts the goblet. “The Grey Wardens were founded during the First Blight, when humanity stood on the verge of annihilation. So it was that the first Grey Wardens drank of darkspawn blood and mastered their taint.”

“We’re going to drink the blood of those… those creatures?” Jory’s voice wavers as he speaks, and for once Darvis finds himself agreeing with the human. He’s never heard _this_ type of story about the Grey Wardens.

Duncan is oblivious to the horror- or, more probably, doesn’t care to acknowledge it. “As the first Grey Wardens did before us, as we did before you. This is the source of our power and our victory. Those who survive the Joining become immune to the taint. We can sense it in the darkspawn and use it to slay the archdemon.” He lowers his eyes to the large goblet in his hands. “Not all who drink the blood will survive and those who do are forever changed. This is why the Joining is a secret. It is the price we pay.”

 _Forever changed?_ Duncan doesn’t elaborate on that part, and Darvis knows this isn’t the time to ask. His instincts scream at him to run, but his brain reminds him it’s far too late for that. Like it or not, he has to follow through with this- as do the other recruits.

Daveth is the first to drink. He steps forward with a willingness that takes Darvis by surprise. Without hesitation, he takes the goblet pours the blood mixture into his mouth.

The reaction is violent and immediate. Daveth’s breath cuts off in a gurgle, and he clutches his throat, staggering and trying to take in ragged breaths between strangled gurgles. His skin changes shades, deathly blue to pale white to an odd pallid gray. Darvis looks away as he falls to the ground, biting down on his tongue to keep himself from becoming sick. He’s seen men die in countless ways; nothing has been like this.

The others are just as horrified. Marja’s eyes are wide and her hands cover her mouth. She seems to be whispering something to herself, though all Darvis can make out is the frantic repetition of _Ancestors._ Behind her is Ser Jory, who looks as if he may vomit at any second.

Duncan, however, wastes no time on the now dead recruit, instead fixing his gaze on the human knight. Jory shakes his head and back away, staring open-mouthed at Daveth’s motionless body.

 “No…I have a wife. A child! Had I known…”

“There is no turning back,” Duncan says gravely. He moves steadily towards Jory, no hint of emotion in his expression.

“Jory, calm down!” Marja reaches toward the man but he jerks away, his eyes wild.

“No! You ask too much! There is no glory in this!” He reaches for the sword at his back. _Don’t be stupid,_ Darvis thinks, but it’s too late. As soon as Jory’s hand reaches the hilt, Duncan is in front of him, his own sword drawn. One swift strike, and Duncan’s blade is embedded in Jory’s chest.

Duncan shoves the sword in deeper, slowly lowering Jory to the ground. As he lays the man down, Darvis just barely hears him say in a low voice, “I am sorry.”

Jory’s death is easier to watch. _This,_ at least, is something Darvis has seen before- some fool getting himself killed because he wouldn’t follow orders. The bitter familiarity of the scene helps Darvis to steady himself.

Duncan stands and retrieves the goblet. “The Joining is not yet complete.”

He turns to Marja first. She is pale and silent but offers no protest when Duncan hands her the cup. Darvis half expects her to lose her nerve at the last minute, but although her hands shake she raises the goblet to her lips and takes a drink.

When she lurches forward with a choked gasp, Darvis thinks that she is about to meet the same fate as Ser Jory. But rather than convulsing, Marja goes rigid. Her head snaps up, eyes wide open and rolled back. Shallow, quick breaths shake her body. She stays like this for a long moment before collapsing to the ground, limp but breathing.

“She will awaken soon,” Duncan says, and Darvis nearly laughs out loud as he imagines the satisfaction the Warden must feel. _At least one of them lived! What a success!_

The delirium dies in his throat when Duncan turns to him, holding the goblet out expectantly. There’s not much of a choice to make. At Darvis’s feet lay the three options, and he can’t say he much likes any of them. But only one path offers even the chance of survival, so Darvis takes the goblet from Duncan and readies himself. He takes a drink, and only has one quick second to note the horrid taste before he blacks out.


	10. Trial By Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marja and Darvis have survived the Joining. Now they just need to survive everything else.

_Darkness._

_Whispers._

_Blood running cold, then hot, then burning._

_And then light, a painfully blinding flash of white._

_And then out of the light, a creature- large and scaly and dragonish._

_The name comes unbidden. Archdemon._

_It screeches, high and piercing._

_And then again, darkness._

 

Glaring light pierces Marja’s vision as she returns to consciousness, and it takes a few moments of disorientation for her to remember where she is.  She sits up with a start, her heart pounding.

“The dragon-”

“Hey, it’s okay. You made it.” Alistair’s voice brings back the memories of the ritual, and relief washes over Marja as she remembers she’s in Ostagar, alive and safe. She’s with the Wardens. She _is_ a Warden.

Gradually, her breathing slows and she’s able to take in her surroundings. She’s still at the site of the ritual, on the ground where she fell after drinking-

The memory makes her stomach turn. _Let’s hope that was a one-time deal,_ she thinks, and pulls herself to her feet with a groan.

“How are you feeling?” Alistair hovers over her, face drawn with worry. “Did you have dreams? I had… terrible dreams after my Joining. We all do.”

“Dwarves don’t dream,” Marja says automatically, but… she _did._ Or she thinks she did. She doesn’t have another word to describe the terrifying vision. “I don’t know. I saw… something.”

The rush of adrenaline begins to fade. Despite the momentary panic and the vision-dream, Marja doesn’t really feel any different. This isn’t as comforting as it perhaps should be. She just drank _darkspawn blood._ By all accounts, she should be emptying her stomach into a bucket right now.

“You saw the archdemon,” Duncan says. He’s a few feet away, leaning over Darvis. From where she stands, Marja can’t tell if the other dwarf is dead or simply unconscious. “Such dreams come as you begin to sense the darkspawn. It happens to all Wardens- even dwarves. That and many other things-” A spluttering cough interrupts his words, and Darvis lurches up.

“ _Fuck!”_ he cries, rubbing his head viciously, and as strange as it is Marja can’t help but be glad to hear him complain. After what happened to Jory and Daveth, it’s simply reassuring to see somebody else survive.

“So I dream now. Okay,” Marja murmurs. “Wow. I see now why the Joining is such a secret.”

“Such is what it takes to become a Grey Warden.” Duncan’s words are soft and serious, but the effect is slightly ruined by the fact that Darvis is still loudly growling obscenities next to him. Duncan reaches out to steady him as he climbs to his feet, then continues. “You both can take some time to rest, but unfortunately we don’t have long. We’ll be meeting with the king tonight.”

Marja’s ears perk up, and for a short moment the darkspawn are all but forgotten. “The king?”

“We will be discussing strategy for the upcoming battle. But first…” Duncan nods at Alistair, who hurries to the altar near the campfire. The Joining Chalice sits on top, looking much less ominous when empty of darkspawn blood. Alistair ignores the cup and retrieves a bundle of clothes and armor from some compartment in the altar. He hands a portion of the bundle to Marja- dark blue cloth, heavy and durable, folded under polished silver armor emblazoned with the symbol of a winged creature.

“You are now truly Wardens,” Duncan says. Marja runs her fingers over the silver symbol. _A griffin,_ she remembers. Even in Orzamaar, children are told tales of the creatures. She’d never given them much thought before.

Duncan looks to Alistair. “I must go. When you are all ready, come join us.” Marja has a million more burning questions for the man, but before she can voice any of them, he is gone. Marja sighs and turns to Alistair instead.

“What was he saying before? About the dreams, and sensing darkspawn? We can do that now?”

“You won’t sense them right away,” Alistair replies. “It comes a little at a time. The dream was the start of it. And there are other changes, as well.”

“There’s _more?”_ Darvis asks.

“Yes, we’re full of surprises here,” Alistair replies, but his joking tone is met only with stony stares. “It’s not all as bad as the Joining,” he rushes to clarify. “There are some useful changes. The legends of Warden strength and endurance aren’t just tall tales. It’s gradual, but you’ll start to feel like you have more energy- you’ll definitely be eating a lot more over the next few months.”

He pauses, then adds reluctantly, “And if Duncan is right and this is a true Blight, you’ll be having more dreams.” 

“Great,” Darvis mutters. “Are they all like… whatever the blazes that was?”

Alistair shrugs helplessly. “Probably. Sorry. I know they’re far from pleasant. But at least you’re alive!” He looks between the two dwarves, his smile full of hope.

“At least we’re alive,” Darvis repeats in less optimistic tone. He unfolds his own uniform, letting the fabric run between his fingers, and grunts in appreciation. Marja looks back at her own, the silver griffon glinting in the firelight.

 _No point in waiting around,_ she thinks as she gathers the uniform and heads to her tent. She has a meeting to attend.

 

After changing into her new equipment, Marja heads toward the area of camp reserved for the king and his advisors. Voices are already raised in argument by the time she arrives.

“Loghain, my decision is final. I will stand by the Grey Wardens in this assault!” Cailan’s voice is strained but firm- the sound of someone who’s had the same fight too many times. He, Duncan, and Loghain are gathered around a long table overlaid with parchments and maps. Alistair stands to the side, looking as if he’d like nothing more than to disappear. Marja quickly joins him and stands at attention. Just as she starts to wonder where Darvis has run off to, he appears out of nowhere beside her, outfitted in his own uniform. Alistair nods at them in greeting, but their attention is drawn back to the meeting as the argument gets louder.

“You risk too much,” Loghain responds. He glares at the young king, his impatience a nearly tangible thing. “The darkspawn horde is too dangerous for you to be playing hero on the front lines.”

“If that’s the case, perhaps we should wait for the Orlesian forces, after all,” Cailan replies, and Loghain’s face darkens further.

“I must repeat my protest to your fool notion that we need the Orlesians to defend ourselves!”

Cailan stares back coolly. “Then our current forces will have to suffice, won’t they? Duncan, are your men ready for battle?”

Duncan nods, his gaze flickering back to the Wardens behind him. “They are, Your Majesty.”

Cailan seems to notice them for the first time, and the hostility he showed Loghain melts away. “Ah, the recruits I met on the road. I understand congratulations are in order.”

“Congratulations?” Darvis mutters dubiously. “For what, not dying?” Marja elbows him in sharp disapproval, although she doesn’t take her eyes off the king as she flashes him a smile.

“Thank you, Your Majesty. It is truly an honor to be here.” She’s laying it on a bit thick, but flattery is small price to pay for the approval of a potential ally.

Cailan beams at her. “You are right to be proud to join the ranks of such prestigious warriors. Together, we will drive the darkspawn from our land.” He motion towards the table, and Marja leans forward to look. The geography of the wilds and the ruins within are laid out before her, small markers depicting troop movements scattered across the paper.

Loghain huffs. The glare he shoots towards the Wardens is enough to show what he thinks of the king’s praise. “Your fascination with glory and legends will be your undoing, Cailan. We must attend to reality.”

“Fine,” the king says curtly. “Speak your strategy. The Grey Wardens and I draw the darkspawn into charging our lines and then…?”

Loghain motions to the map. “You will alert the tower to light the beacon, signaling my men to charge from cover. I have some men stationed at the tower. Lighting the beacon will not be a dangerous task, but it is vital.”

 “Then we should send our best.” Cailan’s eyes flash towards Alistair, who is standing far from the table and seems to be trying to sink into the background. “Send the Wardens to make sure it is done.”

Loghain’s mouth draws tight in irritation. “You rely on these Grey Wardens too much. Is this truly wise?”

Marja rushes to speak before Darvis can make another snarky retort. “I’m certain we will be up to the task, Ser.” Loghain turns his glare to her, and she meets it steadily, giving him no expression other than a slight, polite smile. In truth, the task seems a waste of her talent, no matter how the vital this signal may be. Her skills would be better used in battle, not running an errand. But she will not argue here, in front of the king’s surly advisor who already bears a grudge against the order.

Before Loghain can raise any more protests, Duncan intercedes. “Your Majesty, you should consider the possibility of the archdemon appearing.”

“Isn’t that what your men are here for, Duncan?” Cailan responds, raising an eyebrow, and Duncan falls silent for a moment.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” he says at last, although he’s clearly far from satisfied. Cailan, however, grins with excitement.

“I cannot await that glorious moment! The Grey Wardens doing battle alongside the King of Ferelden to stem the tide of evil!”

“Yes, Cailan.” Loghain’s voice is tired as the man turns his attention back to the maps on the table. “A glorious moment for all.”

 

* * *

 

 

Alistair isn’t pleased with the assignment from the king. He grumbles about it after the meeting, but Duncan stands firm against his requests to join the main battle.

“This is the king’s personal request, Alistair,” Duncan says, a look of warning on his face. “If the beacon is not lit, the Teyrn’s men won’t know when to charge.”

“I agree with Alistair,” Marja cuts in. Darvis is surprised by her argument; she’d been happy enough to kiss up to the king when face to face with him. Now frustration creeps into her voice. “We should be in the battle.”

Darvis says nothing, just runs his fingers over the buckles of his new uniform. He doesn’t understand why the other Wardens are so ready to run headfirst into the worst of the fight. He’s barely recovered from the archdemon visions that the Joining sent flashing through his brain- the last thing he wants is to jump into a pile of darkspawn. Unfortunately, ‘jump into a pile of darkspawn’ seems to be the Warden job description.

At least the uniforms are nice. Darvis is pretty sure his new armor is worth more than his house back in Dust Town.

“We must do whatever it takes to destroy to the darkspawn. Exciting or no.” Duncan’s tone invites no argument. Alistair deflates slightly, and Marja crosses her arms with a resigned look.

“I get it,” Alistair sighs. “But just so you know, if the king ever asks me to put on a dress and dance the Remigold, I’m drawing the line. Darkspawn or no.”

“You have some odd ideas about the king,” Darvis comments. Alistair chuckles, and even Marja’s mouth twitches slightly upward in the suggestion of a smile.

The levity is short-lived. Duncan runs through their orders- ascend the tower, light the beacon, kill any darkspawn they come across. Simple enough.

“And can we join the battle afterwards?” Marja asks.

“Stay and guard the tower. If you are needed, we will send word.”

Marja doesn’t look completely satisfied with the answer, but she offers no more protests as they begin to head out. They part ways with Duncan at the gate, and Alistair nods at Duncan before they go.

“May the Maker watch over you,” he says, his voice uncharacteristically serious, and Duncan nods in return.

“May He watch over us all.”

 

Darvis remembers those words later, in the thick of battle.

The mission that Alistair and Marja had labeled as being too simple and safe turns out to be far more complicated than they anticipated. Darkspawn surround the tower in waves, and these are not the unsuspecting, disconnected groups they found earlier in the wilds. This is, truly, an army.

The three Wardens carve through the darkspawn as quickly as they can, but the tower is thickly infested and their progress is slow. If this is what they’re facing, Darvis shudders to imagine Duncan and the main forces must be up against. He hopes, in the back of his mind, that the humans’ Maker is better at protection than dwarven ancestors.

But he doesn’t have time to think about Duncan for long- the battle at hand commands his full attention. By the time they clear the tower’s main entrance of darkspawn, the group is already blood-spattered and breathing heavily.

“There weren’t supposed to be this many,” Alistair says when they take a quick moment to rest. His eyes are tight with concern as he scans the darkspawn corpses littered across the floor.

“I thought you _wanted_ to fight more,” Darvis points out as he rubs a poultice into a wound on his arm. The injury isn’t too severe- the arrow barely grazed him- but it means he’ll be favoring one arm for the near future.

“So this is a silver lining, then?” Alistair replies with the ghost of a smile. He takes a deep breath and hoists his silver shield back onto his arm. “Fair enough. Come on- we need to keep pushing through if we’re going to light the beacon in time.”

“Hopefully the darkspawn were contained to the lower floors,” Marja comments. She stands at the foot of the stairs, her blood-soaked battleaxe strapped to her back as she begins to climb. “This tower must have had _some_ defenses to slow them down.”

As it turns out, no, the tower doesn’t have defenses. What it does have is a _fucking massive ogre rampaging on the top floor._

“How did this thing even get up here?” Darvis demands as he skirts along the wall, trying to stay out of the beast’s sight. The ogre is thick and gruesome and easily nine feet tall, with horns and fists heavy as anvils. But thankfully, it seems to have poor eyesight.

“Not important right now!” Alistair answers. He circles the monster with Marja, who slashes at it with her axe and manages to draw blood but is swiftly repaid by being thrown against the wall. The ogre advances on her but is distracted by Alistair attacking from the side, sinking his sword into its arm.

Darvis stays at his spot against the wall. He has _knives,_ and compared to this thing those knives look more like toothpicks. Let the warriors handle this monstrosity.

Marja is back on her feet now, and together she and Alistair attack the ogre with an onslaught of blows. The ogre’s movements slow, and for a moment it seems as if they’re about to bring it down. Then the creature lets out an angry, ear-splitting bellow, and throws a punch at Alistair that sends him flying across the room. Marja manages to dodge the blow but is left on her own against the towering beast, not able to get close enough to land a hit as she tries to avoid getting pummeled herself.

The ogre now has its back turned completely to Darvis. Alistair is on the other side of the room, struggling to his feet and about to charge back into the fray- but he’s also only a few feet from the beacon.

 _Shit._ Darvis knows what he has to do. He screams, “I’ve got this, you light the signal!” He doesn’t give himself too much time to reconsider before darting forward and sinking a blade into the back of the ogre’s knee.

With a screech of pain, the ogre staggers unsteadily, flailing for Darvis but unable to find him in its hobbled state. Darvis throws all of his strength into a blow aimed at the ogre’s back, sending it to its knees. Marja wastes no time in taking advantage of the position. She leaps forward and brings her axe down hard across the ogre’s neck.

The thing falls to the ground hard as a blinding light fills the room. Darvis turns to see Alistair standing next to a blazing fire. “There,” the man says with a breath of relief. “Loghain’s forces will be joining the king now.”

“And we should as well,” Marja says, pulling her axe from the ogre’s body. Darvis still can’t believe they took the monstrosity down, and jumps in alarm when the body twitches feebly. He stabs it once more through an eye, just to be safe. Marja nods at him in wordless thanks, and despite the battle they’d just been through she still wears a steely, determined expression. Darvis hates to admit it, but her resolve is impressive. “If what we saw here is any indication of the forces-”

A series of screeches and roars interrupt her words, and the Wardens turn in unison to the towers entrance.

“Reinforcements,” Alistair says grimly, and Darvis shakes his head. _Impossible,_ he thinks. _We killed so many. How can there be more?_

But the sounds from below don’t allow him to doubt for long. He draws his daggers, shooting a look at Alistair. “Any chance _we_ can expect reinforcements?”

“We can hold them off,” Alistair says, and Darvis resist the urge to point out that he didn’t answer the question.

“Will there be more of these ugly things?” he asks instead, motioning to the ogre body.

Marja heaves her axe to a fighting stance. “We’ll find out soon.”

Darvis knows the odds- the three of them against another surge of monsters that have them cornered at the top of tower. But knowing the odds has never stopped him before, so he readies his blades and, side by side with the other Wardens, braces for the first wave of darkspawn to reach them.


	11. When Duty Calls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of a general's betrayal, only three Grey Wardens are left alive. It's up to them to decide what happens next, both to themselves and to the world.

The fight is hopeless from the start.

There are simply too many darkspawn. Darvis dodges and stabs and slices until his daggers are slick with black blood and his muscles are drained of energy, and they _just keep coming._

The others aren’t faring much better. Alistair lost his shield at some point in the fray, and desperately fends off darkspawn with only his sword. Marja’s heavy swings have less and less power to them, exhaustion evident on her face as she forces the axe through the head of yet another Hurlock.

Darvis does his best to stay near them, but the horde is on every side and they soon disappear from sight. An arrow catches him in the arm- _fuck,_ that’s the same arm as before, now he can’t even hold up his left dagger, and with his defenses down the monsters are quick to close in. Darvis grits his teeth and readies his remaining blade even as his knees go weak from fatigue and blood loss.

A resounding roar fills the tower, and he has just enough time to think, _Not another sodding ogre,_ before it all goes black.

 

For one blissful moment as his consciousness returns, Darvis doesn’t remember where he is. Then the memories hit him like a sledgehammer to the head.

He starts forward, hand immediately reaching for daggers that should be at his side. Panic grips him when his hands come back empty. The panic increases as he realizes something is restraining him, and he tries to jerk away-

“Be calm,” a voice says curtly, and a firm hand pushes him back into the bed.

The bed. The strangeness of waking up in a _bed_ makes Darvis pause enough to actually take in his surroundings. He’s in a small room, tucked safely into a bed and tangled in blankets, and a dark-haired human woman is looking down at him with impatience.

“Your eyes finally open, I see,” the woman mused. “Mother will be pleased.”

It’s her golden-eyed stare that finally sparks recognition. “You’re the girl from the Wilds,” Darvis says, still confused by his new circumstances.

“I am Morrigan, lest you have forgotten,” she says brusquely, although she seems pleased that he remembered her face. “And we are in the Wilds. Mother and I have been treating your wounds.”

Darvis sits up again- slower, this time. It’s the second time in the past twenty-four hours he’s awoken confused and feeling like shit, and familiarity doesn’t make the situation any easier. At least this time he doesn’t have the taste of darkspawn blood in his mouth.

And at least Morrigan seemed to be telling the truth about helping him. Darvis stretches cautiously, testing his range of motion, and is surprised to find his arm in working order. His muscles still ache and the pounding in his head hasn’t let up, but aside from that no signs of the battle remain. He doesn’t even have any new scars.

“Thanks,” he mutters, and Morrigan inclines her head slightly in return.

“You are welcome.” She moves away from the bed, although she still watches Darvis with interest. “How does your memory fare? Do you remember Mother’s rescue?”

“Rescue?” Darvis searches for the memory, but can’t recall anything beyond the swarm of darkspawn.

“I take that as a no,” Morrigan says after a moment.

“What _happened?”_

“The man who was to respond to your signal quit the field. The darkspawn won your battle. Those he abandoned were massacred.” She delivers the news with little emotion, and it takes a moment for the reality to sink in.

Massacred. All those fighters, thousands of people, now dead. And Darvis could have easily been one of them if not for the help of these strange women.

“You said your mother saved us? How? Why?”

“She turned into a giant bird and plucked you from atop the tower.” Morrigan’s tone is dry. Darvis doesn’t _think_ she’s serious, but he remembers the wild look in Flemeth’s eyes and the human tales of witches, and he can’t be entirely sure. No further elaboration is given by Morrigan, who simply shrugs at Darvis and continues, “As for the why, I wonder at that myself. Mother rarely tells me her reasoning for what she does. If it were up to me, I would have saved your king. He would have fetched a higher ransom.”

The dark humor takes Darvis by surprise, and he chuckles hoarsely. “ _Much_ higher.”

A smile plays on the edges of Morrigan’s lips. “Ah, but Mother is rarely so sensible. Instead, she chooses the Wardens- and the most inexperienced Wardens, at that.”

Darvis picks up on the plural. “She rescued Alistair as well?”

Morrigan nods, but her smile slips away. “She did. He is not dealing well with the outcome of the battle. He has not ceased moping since he awoke.”

Darvis heaves a sigh. “At least he’s alive.” He pauses for a moment, then begrudgingly adds, “And the other Warden? Dwarven woman?”

“Alive as well. They are both outside with Mother.”

Darvis nods. Three survivors. Things could be worse than that. “I should join them.”

“Very well. We saved your equipment for you.” She motions towards a chest at the foot of the bed before turning to the door. “I will tell your comrades of your awakening. They have been worried for you.”

_Or at least one of them was,_ Darvis thinks as she leaves him to dress. He throws off the blanket, taking the time to once again inspect his body for injuries and not finding a scratch. Whatever “witchy” method this woman used to heal him, Darvis likes it. He hurries to dress, wondering in the back of his mind just how long they’ll be safe here. Flemeth may have saved them, but she doesn’t seem the type to offer long-term shelter. And if the other Wardens have all died, what does that leave for Darvis on this strange surface world?

His thoughts stray to Orzammar, to Rica and Leske. They told him to leave to save his own life, and he’s already come dangerously close to screwing that up. He can only hope they’re doing a better job at staying safe than he is.

Darvis finishes dressing, and as he slides his daggers back into their rightful place at his belt, the familiar weight calms him. He’ll figure something out. He always has. It’s this thought that keeps him steady as he steps out the doorway.

Outside, Flemeth, Marja, and Alistair are gathered beneath a large tree, with Marja pacing back and forth and Alistair sitting, head bowed. All three heads turn as Darvis approaches, and Alistair leaps to his feet.

“ _You’re alive!”_

“Just as I said,” Flemeth says. “I know a thing or two of magic, after all.”

“Yeah. Um, thanks,” Darvis replies. He still isn’t sure how to react to this woman- there’s something off about her that he just doesn’t trust, but she _did_ save his life.

Marja stops her pacing long enough to give Darvis a curt nod. “It’s good to see you on your feet.” Her attention then shifts back to Alistair. “Can we please discuss our plans now? We can’t be safe here.”

“Why not?” Darvis frowns. “Are the darkspawn-”

“The largest part of the horde has moved on,” Flemeth interjects. “You are safe. But not for long. They will notice you eventually- you are Wardens, after all.”

“Exactly.” Marja’s words are firm and sharp, a departure from the airy façade of politeness she’d displayed before. “Which is why we need to decide what we’re doing next.”

“What you’re doing? It has always been the Grey Warden’s duty to unite the lands against the Blight,” Flemeth remarks wryly. “Or did that change when I wasn’t looking?”

“’Unite the lands’ is a noble goal, but it isn’t a _plan,”_ Marja snaps. She looks to Alistair. “You’re the Warden here with the most experience. Any suggestions?”

Alistair sighs, rubbing his head. “I… I don’t know. Duncan… the other Wardens… they’re all dead.” His voice shakes as he speaks, and Darvis notices that the man’s eyes are red.

Marja’s voice softens the slightest amount when she speaks again. “I’m sorry, Alistair. Truly. But surely there must be others. We can regroup-”

Alistair shakes his head. “No, they’re all in Orlais. They won’t risk crossing the border and breaking the peace with Ferelden. By the time we reach them, it will be too late.” His fists clench, and he makes a frustrated sound. “Why would Loghain do this? Why would he betray his king right as a Blight is about to hit Ferelden?”

“Men’s hearts hold shadows darker than any tainted creature,” Flemeth says solemnly.

“That’s politics,” Marja adds, her voice hard as stone. “His reasons don’t matter. What matters is that we put a stop to his games and end the Blight.”

“Stop him? End the Blight?” Darvis repeats in shock. He’d been ready to formulate a plan- a plan to get _out_ of this mess, not further _in._ “In case you haven’t noticed, Princess, you don’t have an army behind you anymore. There are three of us, and the three of us going against Loghain _and_ the darkspawn is a suicide mission.”

“It’s our duty.” To Darvis’s surprise, it’s Alistair who answers sharply. His eyes turn pleading as he looks at Darvis. “Duncan was like a father to me. I won’t let his death be in vain. But I can’t do anything on my own.”

“You also can’t do anything with _three people_ against an _entire nation.”_

“Will it be an entire nation?” Marja asks. “Might there be any nobles who would protest Loghain’s decision?”

Alistair thinks for a moment. “If the truth got out about what happened at Ostagar… Arl Eamon would be the first to call for Loghain’s execution.”

“Then we should go to him. That’s a first step. Are there any other allies…”Marja trails off for a moment before her grey eyes light up. “Of course! We still have the treaties!”

Comprehension dawns on Alistair’s face. “The treaties! The mages, the Dalish, Orzammar- they’re all sworn to aid the Wardens during a Blight!”

“We track them down, invoke the treaties-”

“-and they’ll be obligated to help us-”

“-and there’s our army!”

Darvis watches and listens, a slow sense of horror creeping over him, and now he can’t stand it any longer. “Hold on just a minute! Am I the only one here who’s not _completely insane?”_

 

* * *

 

 

Darvis’s outburst startles Marja out of the plans running through her head.

Since the moment she awoke in Flemeth’s hut, her mind has spiraling, attempting to develop a plan despite this latest setback and obsessing over how she could have missed the signs of Loghain’s impending betrayal. Loghain’s hostility to the Wardens, his impatience with Maric- everything had pointed towards this outcome. And yet, she had been so focused on impressing the king that she hadn’t noticed the warnings from the man who supported him.

Hasn’t she learned _anything?_

She resolves to heed her lesson well, this time. She will not let her guard down again. She will not allow herself to be taken by surprise. Already, she is thinking of future maneuvers, how best to ensure they get what they need. She may still be a stranger to the surface, but this is the game she was raised to play. And with the treaties, everyone will have to listen. _Orzammar_ will have to listen. And if she can return and win back their respect… if she can even get the armies on her side…

Well, that’s a thought for another time. For now, what matters is that the Warden’s mission is actually possible.

The anticipation is so great that she doesn’t immediately realize that Darvis has different plans.

“Maybe you two don’t remember,” he says in a voice approaching a snarl, “but we were nearly killed today. And that was just plain old darkspawn- what if that dream dragon thing had shown up? I vote we _don’t_ get any more involved in this than we already are.”

“We’re already involved. We can’t just leave-,” Alistair begins, but Darvis cuts him off.

“ _Why?_ I say we cut our losses and find a safe place to just… disappear. Let Loghain clean up his own mess.”

“He won’t,” Marja says coldly. “Loghain doesn’t know what he’s dealing with. If we don’t do something, the Blight will destroy Ferelden.”

“We’re Grey Wardens,” Alistair adds, his voice soft but insistent.

Darvis looks between the two of them with disbelieving eyes. A hard expression passes over his face, and he slowly shakes his head. “No. You two can go be Wardens if you want. Not me. I want to live.”

“You mean you want to _run away.”_ Marha’s voice comes out harsh, but she’s past the point of caring.  “Do you even realize what the Blight will do to the world if we don’t intervene?”

“And why should I care?”

“Don’t you have any sense of honor?”

“Don’t give me that nugshit,” Darvis scoffs. “You’re not doing this for honor or nobility or whatever it is you’re telling yourself. You just need to be in charge of something. You’re not royalty anymore, so you’re playing the hero instead. Don’t pretend this coming out of the good of your heart, and don’t drag me into it.”

Marja’s jaw clenches. How dare he accuse _her_ of selfish intentions? Whatever her future goals may be, at least she’s not going to abandon a dying world. “Fine. Don’t consider the fact that it’s the right thing to do- consider the fact that if the Blight wipes out Ferelden, you’ll be wiped out with it. Don’t you understand? There’s nowhere you can hide from this.”

“Orzammar has survived darkspawn for centuries.”

“You’re planning on returning to Orzammar by yourself, then? I’m certain the fighters you disgraced in the Proving would relish the opportunity to welcome you back.”

Darvis’s dark eyes flash with anger, and Marja knows she’s struck a nerve. Good. Appealing to his better nature has not worked so far; she doubts he even has one. If provocation is required to get through to him, so be it.

His voice is a growl when he answers. “And just what do you think is going to happen when you go crawling to our ‘allies’ with these little treaties? You think they’ll just open their coffers to us and give us their soldiers, no strings attached? You really think this arl will believe three nobodies over Loghain and his soldiers? You have no idea how the world works outside of your pretty little castle, Princess.”

Marja steps closer to Darvis, drawing herself to her full height. “You mock me, but you do not understand that title. Since I was born, I have been trained in the arts of war and negotiations. I have faced off against politicians twice my age. I have led men into battle.  And I have survived against the darkspawn, even when left alone and defenseless in the Deep Roads.”

“I do not fear the Blight. I plan to stop it. And I plan to use every resource to do so. Right now, unfortunately, that includes you.”

Darvis takes a step back, but his defensive posture does not change. “Right. I’m _useful_ now,” he answers. His eyes narrow, and his fingers stray to the dagger hilts at his side. “What if I leave anyway? Are you going to stop me?”

Marja thinks of the carnage in Ostagar. She thinks of her city and of her people, who for all their pride have a lot to lose should the Blight be allowed to reach a climax. She thinks of Duncan, driving a sword into Jory’s chest in the name of the Wardens. Distantly, she is aware of the others watching- Alistair with anxious concern and Flemeth with mild curiosity- as her hand moves to the handle of her own weapon. “If I must.”

Darvis looks at her hard, perhaps searching her expression for hints of a bluff. Marja knows none will be found. There is a price for desertion-for betrayal- and if necessary she will see it paid.

As the two dwarves stare each other down, it’s Alistair who breaks the silence. “If there’s anyone you care about,” he says in a gentle, pleading tone, “even in Orzammar… this Blight _will_ hurt them if we don’t stop it. There’s an archdemon out there. You know, you’ve seen it. And right now, there are only three people in Ferelden who can fight it.”

For the first time, Darvis’s defiant glare wavers. He looks down, his face a battlefield of anger and worry.

“The Wilds still crawl with darkspawn.” Marja looks up in surprise at the first contribution Morrgian had made to the conversation. The woman isn’t looking at them, but rather into the darkness of the surrounding trees. Her voice is indifferent as she continues. “A single traveler will be picked off quickly.”

Darvis glances at her. His shoulders slump the slightest amount, and in a low voice he says, “Doesn’t look like I have much choice, then.”

Relief blooms in Marja’s chest, but she controls her expression as she, too, relaxes her stance. “At last, you finally see reason.”

“Yeah. Reason.” Darvis lets out a long sigh. “The three of us against the armies of Ferelden and a fucking archdemon. The reasonable choice.”

“The four of you,” Flemeth corrects. Marja stares at her, but it’s Morrigan who grasps her meaning first.

“ _What?”_ she asks in a sharp voice, and Flemeth gives her daughter a withering look.

“You heard me, girl. The Wardens need all the help they can get. You will go with them.”

“Have I no say in this?”

Flemeth shakes her head. “You’ve been itching to get out of the Wilds for years. Here is your chance.”

“We don’t want to _force_ her to join us,” Darvis says, sending a dirty look in Marja’s direction, but Marja just frowns back and speaks over him.

“We do need all the help we can get. We’d be happy to accept whatever Morrigan can give us.”

Morrigan looks between the Wardens and Flemeth, her usual nonchalance falling away to shock. “Mother, this is not how I wanted this. I am not even ready-“

“You must be ready.” Flemeth’s voice is firm, inviting no further arguments. “Without you, they will surely fail, and all will perish under the Blight. Even I.”

Morrigan holds her mother’s gaze for a long moment, and some sort of understanding seems to pass between the two. “I… understand.”

Flemeth’s fierce gaze swivels to Marja. “And you Wardens? Do you understand? I give you that which I value above all in this world. I do this because you _must_ succeed.”

“I understand,” Marja answers. Darvis huffs, but nods along.

Alistair, however, still looks unsure. When Morrigan departs to gather her things from the small house, he leans close to Marja. “This may make our situation worse. Outside of the Wilds, she’s an apostate.”

“A little illegal magic is probably useful,” Darvis counters. He’s still wearing a dour expression, but Marja is appreciated that fact that he’s at least being practical.

“And we truly can’t afford to turn away help,” Marja adds.

Alistair doesn’t seem pleased, but he glances between the two dwarves and seems to accept that if they agree on something, it’s best not to argue. At last, Morrigan returns, a bag slung over her back and a resigned look on her face. She glances towards the sky, as if she’s scrutinizing something above them. “Let us be off, then.  I suggest a village north of here as our first destination. ‘Tis only a few days’ journey, and there will be much we need there.”

“Seems as good a place to start as any,” Marja says. “Do you know the way?”

Morrigan nods, and then looks hesitantly back at Flemeth, who watches from the doorway of her shack. She lifts her chin and calls out, “Farewell, Mother. Do not forget the stew on the fire. I would hate to return to a burned-down hut.”

Flemeth makes a dismissive noise. “’Tis far more likely you will return to see this entire area, along with my hut, swallowed up by the Blight.”

The words make Morrigan flinch. “All I meant was-”

“Yes, I know.” Flemeth smiles fondly, but the expression does not quite reach her eyes. “Do try to have fun, dear.”

Morrigan gives her mother one last, long look, then turns and begins walking through the trees. Before they follow, Alistair looks down at his companions. “Are you two going to be okay?” he asks hesitantly. “We can’t be at each other’s throats here.”

“What do you expect?” Darvis demands. He casts a sidelong glance at Marja. “I’m not happy about any of this, and I certainly don’t trust _her_.”

“You don’t have to be happy, and you don’t have to trust me,” Marja replies. “Just do your job.”

Darivs scowls but gives a stiff nod, and Alistair lets out a long exhale. “That will do for now, I suppose.”

“Are you coming along or not?” Morrigan calls impatiently. Darvis turns and follows her without another word. Marja follows suit, eying Darvis warily as she walks behind him. Alistair falls into step last, taking in the situation with a sigh and a furrowed brow. Together, the Wardens allow Morrigan to lead them away from the relative safety of the hut and into the darkness of the darkspawn-infested forest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!  
> This chapter marks the conclusion of the first 'arc' of the story, and I just want to give a giant thank you to everyone who's been reading and commenting. You guys are the best and I love hearing from you, especially the amazing people who have commented multiple times. Your encouragement means a lot to me and is a big reason why this story is still going! 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you've enjoyed the story so far, and don't forget to come back next month for the beginning of the next arc!


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